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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/musicaleffects48sche 


Werner's 

Readings  and  Recitations 

No.  48 


Musical   Effects 
By  STANLEY  SGHELL 

MUSIC   WRITTEN   OR   ARRANGED    BY 

E.J.  BIEDERMANN,   MUS.  D. 
ARTHUR  GUTMAN,   MUS,  D. 


EDGAR  S.  WERNER  &  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK. 


Copyright,   1011,   by   Edgar  S.   Werner.      All   rights   reserved. 


All  the  material  in  this  book — both  words  and  music — has  been 
selected,  arranged,  or  written  especially  for  this  book,  and  has 
been  duly  copyrighted.  All  rights  are  reserved.  We  warn  against 
the  reproducing  of  any  of  the  material  in  written,  typewritten, 
printed  or  in  any  other  form.  The  material  is  for  entertainment 
purposes  only.  Amateurs  have  permission  to  recite  any  of  the 
material. 


Reciters  should  bear  in  mind  that  the  music  in  these  recitations  is 
not  a  musical  accompaniment  in  the  usual  sense,  except  where  singing 
is  definitely  indicated.  The  pianist  or  other  instrumentalist  should 
follow  the  words  exactly  as  they  are  printed,  and  should  keep  his 
playing  subordinate  to  the  part  of  the  reciter.  The  reciter,  however, 
will  find  times  when  he  is  to  wait  for  and  follow  the  music.  Rehearsals 
■"will  help  reciter  and  musician  to  work  harmoniously  and  artistically. 


Werner's    Readings    No.    48 — 2 


CONTENTS 

-*>  ■■  ■  ,w  PAGE 

America  (song)    18 

America  and  England. — George  Huntington 17 

Annie  Laurie  (song) 32 

Anvil  Chorus  (music)    71 

At  de  Cake- Walk. — Martha  Young 185 

Baby's  Bedtime. — Eben  E.  Rexford 49 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic  (song) 41 

Betty  Carewe's  Dance. — Booth  Tarkington   60 

Bird  Notes 52 

Black  Ankle  Break-Down. — Harry  Stillwell  Edwards 26 

Blacksmith's  Song  (No.  1). — I.  E.  Diekenga 70 

Blacksmith's  Song  (No.  2). — G.  Lemoine 75 

Bob- White.— Cale  Young  Rice 105 

Bundle  of  Letters. — Arr.  by  Blanche  Baird  Winfield 23 

Busted  Dolly. — Josephine  Merwin  Cook  and  Stanley  Schell.  . .  132 

Clock  Speaks. — Paul  West   159 

Comin'  Thro'  the  Rye  (song) 20 

Corn-Stalk  Fiddle. — Paul  Laurence  Dunbar    162 

Cow-Puncher's  Song. — John  A.  Lomax 106 

Dance  at  Uncle  Bob's. — Ernest  McGaffey    47 

Dixie    ( song)    45 

Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home?  (song) 183 

Fair  Harvard  (song) 190 

Haymaker's  Song. — Alfred  Austin   158 

He  Was  Her  Only  Son. — Irene  Pettit  M'Keehan 36 

He  Will  Carry  You  Through  (hymn) 96 

Highland  Lovers. — Mary  L.  Gaddess 64 

Home,  Sweet  Home  (song)    40 

Honey-Bug  Baby. — Emma  C.  Dulaney 150 

Housecleaning. — Carrie  W.   Bronson    115 

Household  Thrush. — Lillie  E.  Barr    19 

Hush-a-By  Twentieth  Century  Baby. — Mrs.  Charles  Gay.  .  .  .  148 

Jes'  Whistle  up  a  Song 116 

Katy's  Letter. — Lady  Dufferin 14 

Lead,  Kindly  Light  (hymn) 42 

Long,  Long  Ago  (song) 24 

Lullabies  of  Various  Lands 118 

M'  LiT  Black  Baby. — Josephine  Merwin  Cook  and  Stanley 

Schell    89 

Mammy's  Churning  Song. — Edward  A.  Oldham 141 

Meeting  at  the  Basins. — Sarah  P.  McLean  Greene 94 

Mein  Schweet  Moosik. — Hamilton  Clarke 76 

Werner's   Readings   No.    48 — 3 


PAGE 

Mike,  Street  Fiddler.— William  B.  Hamilton 154 

Milly  Amos's  Hymn. — Eliza  Calvert  Hall   9 

Morning  in  Birdland. — Edith  M.  Thomas 51 

Morning  Song.— Elsie  M.  Wilbor 178 

Musical  Frogs. — John  Stuart  Blackie 103 

Musical  Martyrdom. — Susie  M.  Best 82 

Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee  (hymn) 59 

Nearer — There. — Andrew  H.  Smith 57 

New  Song  of  "Dixie". — Maud  Lindsay 44 

Mote  Within. — John  Kendrick  Bangs 100 

0  Rock-a-By,  Dears. — Anna  Sanford  Thompson 153 

Old  Guitar. — Samuel  Minturn  Peck 147 

Old  Log  Hut  (song)   180 

Old  Mother  Hubbard  Sermon  166 

Old  Played-Out  Song. — James  Whitcomb  Riley 183 

Old  Sweet  Song. — Mary  L.  Gaddess 180 

Only  a  Daguerreotype. — Lucy  Carroll 19 

Only  a  Man 171 

Our  Soldiers'  Santiago  Song. — David  Graham  Adee 66 

Polly's  Guitar. — C.  F.  Lester 145 

Practicing  Song 78 

Rock-a-By  Babies 152 

Sands  o'  Dee. — Charles  Kingsley 21 

Scrap  of  College  Lore. — Will  Allen  Dromgoole 108 

Sing  a  Song  of  Sixpence  (song) 115 

Song  of  the  Camp. — Bayard  Taylor 31 

Song  of  the  Churn  142 

Song  of  the  Drum. — E.  L.  Hitchens 137 

Song  of  the  Piggies 93 

Star-Spangled  Banner  (song)    43 

Summer  Shower.— Theodore  Marzials 33 

This  Little  Pig  Went  to  Market  (song) 50 

Those  Endearing  Young  Charms  (song) 63 

Triumph  of  Faith. — Wilson  Barrett 67 

Visit  of  the  Christ-Child. — Elizabeth  Harrison    84 

Wedding  of  Captain  Gadsby. — Rudyard  Kipling 123 

Welcome,  Sweet  Day  of  Rest  (hymn) 13 

When  Josiah  Plays  the  Fiddle. — Julia  T.  Riordan 80 

When  the  Cuckoo  Sings. — Alfred  Austin 87 

Whistling  Boy. — Nixon  Waterman 101 

Willoughby  of  '63  ("Billings  of  '49").— Edwin  Balmer 186 

Woman  Suffrage  Marching-Song. — Louis  J.  Block 113 

Wooing  of  Hysteria 174 

Werner's  Readings  No.  48 — i 


INDEX    TO    AUTHORS 


PAGE 

Adee,  David  Graham  66 

Austin,  Alfred 87,  158 

Balmer,  Edwin    186 

Bangs,  Tohn  Kendrick 100 

Barr,  Lillie  E 19 

Barrett,  Wilson 67 

Best,  Susie  M 82 

Blackie,   Tohn  Stuart    103 

Block,  Louis  J 113 

Bronson.  Carrie  W 115 

Carroll,  Lucy 19 

Clarke,  Hamilton    76 

Cook,  Josephine  Merwin   89,  132 

Diekenga,  I.  E 70 

Dromgoole,  Will  Allen   108 

Dufferin,  Lady   14 

Dulaney,  Emma  C 150 

Dunbar,  Paul  Laurence   1 62 

Edwards,  Harrv  Stillwell  26 

Gaddess,  Mary'L 64,  180 

•Gay,  Mrs.  Charles 148 

Greene,  Sarah  P.  McLean 94 

Hall,  Eliza  Calvert 9 

Hamilton,  William  B 154 

Harrison,  Elizabeth   84 

Hitchens,  E.  L 137 

Huntington.  George 17 

Kingsley,  Charles   21 

Kipling,  Rudyard   123 

Lemoine.  G 75 

Lester,  C.  F 145 

Lindsey,  Maud    44 

Lomax.  John  A 106 

McGaffey,  Ernest 47 

M'Keehan,  Irene  Pettit   36 

Marzials,  Theodore    33 

Oldham,  Edward  A 141 

Peck,  Samuel  Minturn 147 

Rexford,  Eben  E 49 

Rice,  Cale  Young 105 

Werner's  Readings  No.   48 — 5 


PAGE 

Riley,  James  Whitcomb 183 

Riordan,  Julia  T 80 

Schell,  Stanley  89,  132 

Smith,  Andrew  H 57 

Tarkington,  Booth   60 

Taylor,  Bayard 31 

Thomas,  Edith  M 51 

Thompson,  Anna  Sanford 153 

Waterman,   Nixon    101 

West,  Paul 159 

Wilbor,  Elsie  M 178 

Winfield,  Blanche  Baird   23 

Young,  Martha 185 


CLASSIFIED    CONTENTS 


BAND-MUSIC  EFFECTS 

PAGE 

Corn-Stalk    Fiddle 162 

He  Was  Her  Only  Son 36 

Mein  Schweet  Moosik 76 

Mike,  Street  Fiddler 154 

Old  Guitar   147 

Polly's  Guitar   145 

Song  of  the  Drum 137 

When  Josiah  Plays  the  Fiddle  80 

BIRD-NOTES 

Bob-White  105 

Household  Thrush 19 

Morning  in  Birdland 51 

Morning  Song 178 

When  the  Cuckoo  Sings 87 

CHILDREN,  FOR  OR  ABOUT 

Baby's  Bedtime ■. 49 

Honey-Bug    Baby. 150 

Hush-a-By   Twentieth   Century 

Baby 148 

Lullabies  of  Various  Lands. . .  .118 

Mammy's  Churning  Song 141 

Mike,  Street  Fiddler 154 

M'  LiT  Black  Baby 89 

O  Rock-a-By,  Dears 153 

Practicing  Song   78 

Rock-a-By   Babies 152 


Song  of  the  Piggies 93 

Visit  of  the  Christ-Child 84 

Whistling    Boy 101 

DANCING-EFFECTS 

At  de  Cake-Walk 185 

Black  Ankle  Break-Down 26 

Dance  at  Uncle  Bob's 47 

DIALECT 

At  de  Cake-Walk  (negro) 185 

Black  Ankle  Break-Down  (ne- 
gro)     26 

Busted  Dolly  (child). 132 

Highland  Lovers  (child) 64 

Honey-Bug  Baby  (negro) 150 

Jes'  Whistle  up  a  Song  (Yan- 
kee)     116 

Katy's  Letter  (Irish) 14 

Mammy's  Churning  Song  (ne- 
gro)    141 

Meeting  at  the  Basins(Yankee)  94 
Mein  Schweet Moosik(German)  76 
M'  LiT  Black  Baby  (negro)  ...  89 
Milly  Amos's  Hymn  (Yankee)  9 
Old  Played-Out  Song( Yankee)  183 

Practicing  Song  (child) 78 

When  Josiah  Plays  the  Fiddle 
(Yankee)  80 


Werner's  Readings  No.  48 — 6 


DIALOGUES,  PLAYS,  ENTER- 
TAINMENTS TAGH 

Highland  Lovers   64 

Lullabies  of  Various  Lands. . .  .118 

Rock-a-By  Babies   152 

Wedding  of  Captain  Gadsby. .  .123 

HUMMING 
Only  a  Daguerreotype 19 

MONOLOGUES,  RECITALS 

At  de  Cake- Walk.. 185 

Baby's  Bedtime  49 

Betty  Carewe's  Dance 60 

Blacksmith's  Song  (No.  1)....  70 
Blacksmith's  Song  (No.  2)....   75 

Black  Ankle  Break-Down 26 

Bob-White    105 

Bundle  of  Letters 23 

Busted  Dolly  132 

Corn-Stalk  Fiddle   162 

Cow-Puncher's  Song 106 

Dance  at  Uncle  Bob's.. 47 

He  Was  Her  Only  Son 36 

Honey-Bug  Baby 150 

Housecleaning 115 

Hush-a-By  Twentieth    Century 

Baby    148 

Jes'  Whistle  up  a  Song 116 

Katy's  Letter 14 

Mammy's  Churning  Song 141 

Mein  Schweet  Moosik 76 

M'  LiT  Black  Baby 89 

Milly  Amos's  Hymn 9 

Morning  Song  1 78 

Musical  Frogs  1 03 

Musical  Martyrdom 82 

Nearer — There    57 

Note  Within 100 

O  Rock-a-By,  Dears  153 

Old  Mother  Hubbard  Sermon.  166 

Old  Played-Out  Song  183 

Our  Soldiers'  Santiago  Song. . .   66 

Polly's   Guitar   145 

Practicing  Song   78 

Song  of  the  Piggies 93 

Visit  of  the  Christ-Child 84 

When  Josiah  Plays  the  Fiddle.   80 

Whistling  Boy    101 

MUSICALLY   ACCOMPANIED 
RECITATIONS 

America  and  England 17 

Blacksmith's  Song  (No.  1)....   70 

Werner's  Read 


PAGH 

Blacksmith's  Song  (No.  2) 75 

Clock  Speaks  159 

Haymaker's  Song 158 

Katy's  Letter  14 

Note  Within  100 

Old  Mother  Hubbard  Sermon.  166 

Only  a  Man 171 

Sands  o'  Dee 21 

Song  of  the  Churn 142 

Visit  of  the  Christ-Child 84 

Wooing  of  Hysteria 174 

PATRIOTIC 

America  and  England 17 

He  Was  Her  Only  Son 36 

New  Song  of  "Dixie" 44 

Our  Soldiers'  Santiago  Song. . .  66 

Song  of  the  Camp 31 

Song  of  the  Drum 137 

PRIZE      CONTESTS,     COM- 
MENCEMENTS 

Betty  Carewe's  Dance 60 

He  Was  Her  Only  Son 36 

Meeting  at  the  Basins 94 

Mike,  Street  Fiddler .154 

Only  a  Daguerreotype   19 

Only  a  Man 171 

Scrap  of  College  Lore 108 

Triumph  of  Faith 67 

Willoughby  of  '63 186 

READINGS     AND     RECITA- 
TIONS 

America  and  England 17 

Clock  Speaks  159 

Household   Thrush    19 

Meeting  at  the  Basins 94 

Mike,  Street  Fiddler 154 

Morning  in  Birdland 51 

New  Song  of  "Dixie" 44 

Old  Guitar    147 

Old  Sweet  Song 180 

Only  a  Daguerreotype 19 

Only  a  Man  171 

Sands  o'  Dee 21 

Scrap  of  College  Lore 108 

Song  of  the  Camp 31 

Song  of  the  Churn 1 42 

Song  or  the  Drum 137 

Summer  Shower  33 

Triumph  of  Faith 67 

ings  No.   4S — 7 


PAGD 

When  the  Cuckoo  Sings 87 

Willoughby  of  '63 ....186 

Woman      Suffrage      Marching- 
Song  113 

Wooing  of  Hysteria   174 

RELIGIOUS 

Milly  Amos's  Hymn 9 

Nearer — There    57 

Triumph  of  Faith 67 

Visit  of  the  Christ-Child 84 

SINGING-EFFECTS 

Baby's  Bedtime  49 

Betty  Carewe's  Dance   60 

Black  Ankle   Break-Down 26 

Bundle  of  Letters 23 

Busted  Dolly  132 

Cow- Puncher's  Song 106 

He  Was  Her  Only  Son 36 

Highland  Lovers    64 

Honey-Bug  Baby 150 

Housecleaning 115 

Household  Thrush 19 

Hush-a-By  Twentieth   Century 

Baby    148 

Lullabies  of  Various  Lands.  . .  .118 

Mammy's   Churning  Song 141 

Meeting  at  the  Basins 94 

M'  LiT  Black  Baby 89 

Milly  Amos's   Hymn 9 

Musical  Frogs  103 

Musical  Martyrdom 82 

Nearer — There 57 

New  Song  of  "Dixie" 44 

O  Rock-a-By,  Dears  153 

Old  Played-Out  Song   183 

Old  Sweet  Song .180 

Our  Soldiers'  Santiago  Song..  66 

Practicing  Song   78 

Rock-a-By  Babies    152 

Scrap  of  College  Lore 108 


PAGE 

Song  of  the  Camp 31 

Song  of  the  Piggies 93 

Triumph  of  Faith 67 

Wedding  of  Captain  Gadsby. .  .123 

Willoughby  of  '63 .186 

Woman     Suffrage      Marching- 
Song  113 

SONGS  AND  INSTRUMENTAL 
MUSIC 

Annie  Laurie   32 

Anvil  Chorus   71 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic.  41 

Bird  Notes   ■ 52 

Cheerily  Thy  Bugle  Sounds. ...   65 

Comin'  Thro'  the  Rye 20 

Dixie    45 

Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home?.. 183 

Fair  Harvard 190 

He  Will  Carry  You  Through. .  96 

Home,  Sweet  Home 40 

Lead,   Kindly  Light 42 

Long,  Long  Ago 24 

Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee 59 

Old  Log  Hut .180 

Rock-a-By  Baby 148 

Sing  a  Song  of  Sixpence 115 

Star-Spangled  Banner 43 

This  Little  Pig  Went  to  Market  50 
Those  Endearing  YoungCharms  63 
Welcome,  Sweet  Day  of  Rest. .    13 

TOAST 

Haymaker's  Song 158 

WHISTLING 

Jes'  Whistle  up  a  Song 116 

Whistling  Boy    101 

WOMAN  SUFFRAGE 

Woman      Suffrage     Marching- 
Song    113 


Werner's  Readings  No.   48 — 8 


Werner's 
Readings  and  Recitations 

No.  48 


Copyright,  1911,  by  Edgar  S.  Werner. 


MILLY    AMOS'S    HYMN. 

["welcome,  sweet  day  of  rest."] 


Story  by  ELIZA  CALVERT  HALL. 

Arranged  as  monologue  by  Stanley  Schell. 


Characters:  Aunt  Jane,  speaker,  present;  young  lady  visitor, 
supposed  to  be  present. 

Scene  :  Porch  of  house.  Aunt  Jane,  seated  in  old-fashioned 
rocker,  wears  old-fashioned  black  dress,  small  fancy  shawl 
draped  about  shoulders  and  fastened  at  belt  in  front ;  white, 
snug-fitting  cap  on  head  and  tied  under  chin.  She  sits  look- 
ing off  dreamily  and  suddenly  begins  to  sing  in  high,  sweet, 
quivering  treble : 

"Welcome,  sweet  day  of  rest,, 
That  saii'  the  Lord  arise; 
Welcome  to  this  reviving  breast, 
And  these  rejoicing  eyes." 

[Music   on   page    13.] 

[Rocks  zvhile  singing.  Suddeidy  stops  rocking  and  listens  to 
some  one  coming.] 

Come  in,  child,  and  set  down— I  was  just  settin'  here  restin', 
an'  thinkin'  about  Milly.  I  reckon  you  heard  me  singin'  fit  to 
scare  the  crows  as  you  come  along.  We  used  to  call  that  tune 
"Milly  Amos's  hvrnn,"  an'  I  never  can  hear  it  without  thinkin'  o' 
Milly. 

Why  was  it  called  Milly  Amos's  hymn?  [Laughs.]  La,  child! 
don't  you  ever  git  tired  o'  my  yarns?     Here  it  is  Sunday,  an' 

9 


10  WERNER'S  READINGS 

you  tryin'  to  git  me  started  talkin',  an'  when  I  git  started  you 
know  there  ain't  any  tellin'  when  I'll  stop. 

No  more  harm  in  talkin'  about  a  thing  on  Sunday  than  there  is 
in  thinkin'  about  it?  [Laughs  heartily.]  Well,  I  reckon  yer. right, 
child.     [Smoothes  out  lines  on  dress;  smiles.] 

Well,  I  reckon  you've  heard  me  tell  about  our  choir.  You 
know  John  Petty  was  the  bass,  Sam  Amos  the  tenor,  my  Jane  the 
alto,  and  Milly,  Sam's  wife,  sung  the  soprano.  I  reckon  Milly 
might  a'  been  called  the  leader  of  the  choir ;  she  was  the  sort-  o' 
woman  that  generally  leads  wherever  she  happens  to  be,  an'  she 
had  the  strongest,  finest  voice  in  the  whole  congregation.  All  the 
parts  appeared  to  depend  on  her,  an'  it  seemed  like  her  voice  jest 
carried  the  rest  o'  the  voices  along  one  big  river  that  takes  up 
all  the  little  rivers  an'  carries  'em  down  to  the  ocean.  It  used  to 
sound  so  pretty  to  hear  'em  begin  singin'  when  everything  was 
still  an'  solemn,  an'  I  can  never  forgit  the  hymns  they  sung  then 
— Sam  an'  Milly  an'  John  an'  my  Jane. 

But  there  was  one  Sunday  when  Milly  didn't  sing.  Her  an' 
Sam  come  in  late,  an'  I  knew  the  minute  I  set  eyes  on  Milly  that 
somethin'  was  the  matter,  for  she  set  herself  down  without  even 
lookin'  at  anybody,  to  say  nothin'  o'  smilin'  or  speakin'.  Well, 
when  half -past  ten  come,  my  Jane  began  to  play  "Welcome, 
Sweet  Day  o'  Rest,"  an'  all  of  'em  begun  singin',  except  Milly. 
She  set  there  with  her  mouth  shet  tight  an'  let  the  bass  an'  tenor 
an'  alto  have  it  all  their  own  way.  Everybody  was  laughin'  or 
tryin'  to  keep  from  laughin'.  Sam  looked  so  mortified  an'  kept 
lookin'  round  at  Milly  as  if  pleadin'  with  her  to  sing,  but  she 
never  opened  her  mouth. 

When  the  next  hymn  was  given  out  Milly  rose  an'  sung  her 
best;  an'  when  the  Doxology  come  round  Milly  was  on  hand 
again,  an'  everybody  wondered  why  on  earth  Milly  hadn't  sung  in 
the  first  hymn.  When  church  was  out,  I  heard  Sam  invitin' 
Brother  Hendricks  to  go  home  an'  take  dinner  with  him.  They 
all  drove  off  together  before  I'd  time  to  speak  to  Milly. 

That  week  when  the  Mite  Society  met,  Milly  was  there  bright 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48  11 

an'  early,  an'  when  we'd  got  fairly  started  with  our  sewin'  an' 
everybody  was  in  good  humor,  Milly  was  asked  why  she  didn't 
sing  in  the  first  hymn.  Milly's  face  got  as  red  as  a  beet,  an'  she 
burst  out  laughin'  an'  she  declared  she  was  ashamed  to  tell.  She 
was  finally  induced  to  do  so  an'  this  is  what  she  told  us. 

"I  reckon  Satan  himself  must  a'  been  in  me  last  Sunday. 
There's  some  days,  you  know,  when  everything  goes  wrong  with 
a  woman,  an'  last  Sunday  was  one  o'  them  days.  I  got  up  early, 
dressed  the  children,  fed  the  chickens,  strained  the  milk,  washed 
up  the  milk  things,  got  breakfast,  washed  the  dishes,  cleaned  up 
the  house,  gathered  the  vegetables  for  dinner,  washed  the  chil- 
dren's hands  an'  faces,  put  their  Sunday  clothes  on  'em,  an'  jest 
as  I  was  startin'  to  git  myself  ready  for  church,  I  happened  to 
think  that  I  hadn't  skimmed  the  milk  for  next  day's  churnin'.  So 
I  went  down  to  the  spring-house  an'  did  the  skimmin',  an'  jest  as 
I  picked  up  the  cream-jar  to  put  it  up  on  the  shelf,  my  foot 
slipped  an'  down  I  come  an'  skinned  my  elbow  on  the  rock  step, 
an'  broke  the  jar  all  to  smash  an'  spilled  the  cream  all  over 
creation,  an'  there  I  was — four  pounds  o'  butter  an'  a  fifty-cent 
jar  gone,  an'  my  spring-house  in  such  a  mess  that  I  ain't  through 
cleanin'  it  yet,  an'  my  right  arm  as  stiff  as  a  poker  ever  since. 

"It  was  enough  to  make  a  saint  mad  an'  I'm  no  saint.  I  picked 
up  the  pieces  an'  washed  up  the  worst  o'  the  cream,  an'  then  I 
went  to  the  house  to  git  ready  for  church,  an'  before  I  could  git 
there  I  heard  Sam  hollerin'  for  me  to  come  an'  sew  a  button  on 
his  shirt;  an'  when  I  got  out  my  work-basket,  the  children  had 
been  playin'  with  it,  an'  there  wasn't  a  needle  in  it,  an'  my 
thimble  was  gone,  an'  I  had  to  hunt  up  the  apron  I  was  makin' 
for  little  Sam  an'  git  a  needle  off  that,  an'  I  run  the  needle  through 
my  finger,  not  havin'  any  thimble,  an'  got  a  spot  o'  blood  on  the 
bosom  o'  Sam's  shirt.  Then,  before  I  could  git  my  dress  over  my 
head,  there  come  in  little  Sam  with  his  clothes  all  dirty  where  he 
had  fell  down  in  the  mud,  an'  there  I  had  him  to  dress  again,  an' 
that  made  me  madder  still;  an'  then,  when  I  finally  got  out  to 
the  wagon,  I  rubbed  my  clean  dress  against  the  wheel,  an'  that 


12  WERNER'S  READINGS 

made  me  mad  again ;  an'  the  nearer  we  got  to  church,  the  madder 
I  was ;  an'  do  you  reckon  after  all  I'd  been  through  that  mornin' 
an'  dinner  ahead  of  me  to  git,  an'  the  children  to  look  after  all 
the  evenin',  do  you  reckon  that  I  felt  like  settin'  up  there  an' 
singin'  'Welcome,  Sweet  Day  o'  Rest?'  I  ain't  seen  any  day  o' 
rest  since  I  married  Sam,  an'  I  don't  expect  to  see  any  till  the  day 
I  die,  an'  if  Parson  Page  wants  any  of  that  hymn  sung,  let  him 
git  up  a  choir  o'  old  maids  an'  old  bachelors,  for  they're  the  only 
people  that  ever  see  any  rest  Sundays  or  any  other  day. 

"By  the  time  church  was  over  I'd  kind  o'  cooled  off,  but  when 
I  heard  Sam  askin'  Brother  Hendricks  to  go  home  an'  take  din- 
ner with  him,  that  made  me  mad  again,  for  I  knew  that  meant 
a  big  dinner  for  me  to  cook,  an'  I  made  up  my  mind  then  an' 
there  that  I  wouldn't  cook  a  blessed  thing,  company  or  no  com- 
pany. Sam'd  killed  chickens  the  night  before,  an'  they  was  all 
dressed  an'  ready,  down  in  the  spring-house ;  an'  the  vegetables 
was  right  there  on  the  back  porch,  but  I  never  touched  'em.  I 
happened  to  have  some  cold  ham  an'  cold  mutton  on  hand — not 
much  o'  either  one — an'  I  sliced  'em  an'  put  the  ham  in  one  end  o' 
the  big  meat-platter  an'  the  mutton  in  the  other,  with  a  big  bare 
space  in  between,  so's  everybody  could  see  there  wasn't  enough  o' 
either  to  go  round,  an'  then  I  sliced  up  a  loaf  o'  salt-risin'  bread 
an'  got  out  a  bowl  o'  honey  an'  a  dish  o'  damson  preserves,  an' 
then  I  went  out  on  the  porch  an'  told  Sam  that  dinner  was  ready. 
Well,  Sam  jumps  up  an'  says,  'Why,  Milly,  you  are  smart  to-day. 
I  don't  believe  there's  another  woman  in  the  county  that  could 
git  a  Sunday  dinner  this  quick;'  an'  then  he  grandly  turned  to 
Brother  Hendricks  an'  says,  'Walk  out,  Brother  Hendricks,  walk 
right  out.' 

"When  Sam  saw  the  table,  his  face  changed  quicker  than  flash 
o'  lightnin',  an'  then  he  dropped  down  into  the  chair  an'  forgot 
to  ask  Brother  Hendricks  to  say  grace.  He  looked  at  me  sharply 
an'  then  said,  'Why,  Milly,  where's  the  dinner?  Where's  them 
chickens  I  killed  last  night,  an'  the  potatoes  an'  corn  an'  butter- 
beans?'    I  looked  Sam  squarely  in  the  face  an'  said,  'The  chick- 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48 
WELCOME,  SWEET  DAY  OF  REST. 


13 


1 


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141 


2=3 


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Wei  -  come,  sweet     day      of .  .  .        rest,  That   saw 

J     J' 


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riv     -     ing    breast,      And      these         re    -    joic  -    ing       eyes, 


4=f=ht 


I 


r m-^i 1 — -| 

ens  are  in  the  spring-house  an'  the  vegetables  are  on  the  back 
porch,  an'  do  you  suppose  I'm  going  to  cook  a  hot  dinner  for  you 
all  on  this   'Sweet  Day  o'  Rest?' 

"Brother  Hendricks  made  me  feel  plumb  ashamed  o'  myself 
for  actin'  so  mean.  He  jest  reached  over  an'  helped  himself  to 
everything  he  could  reach,  an'  says  he,  'This  dinner  suits  me,  an' 
is  jest  the  kind  I'm  used  to  at  home.  I'd  ruther  eat  a  cold  dinner 
any  time  than  have  a  woman  toilin'  over  a  hot  stove  for  me/ 
An'  when  he  had  said  that,  I  up  an'  told  him  all  about  the  events 
of  the  day  an'  he  said,  'Well,  Sister,  if  I  had  been  through  all 
you  have  this  mornin'  an'  then  had  to  git  up  an'  give  out  such 


14 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


a  hymn  as  "Welcome,  Sweet  Day  o'  Rest,"  I  believe.  I'd  be  mad 
enough  to  pitch  the  hymn-book  an'  the  Bible  at  the  deacons  an' 
the  elders.'  He  turned  to  Sam  an'  said,  'Did  you  ever  think, 
Brother  Amos,  that  there  ain't  a  pleasure  men  enjoy  that  women 
don't  have  to  suffer  for  it?' 

"I  was  so  pleased  at  what  Brother  Hendricks  said  that  I  got 
the  best  supper  I  could — fried  chicken,  waffles,  hot  soda-biscuits^ 
coffee  an'  goodness  knows  what  not,  an'  that  supper  tickled  Sam 
most  to  death." 

[Aunt  Jane  sits  silent  a  moment  then  resumes  her  story.] 

You  could  almost  see  Milly  as  I  told  the  story?  Gracious,  child, 
that  makes  one  feel  creepy,  for  Milly  has  been  dead  many  years. 

Milly  was  a  slave  to  Sam  as  long  as  she  lived.  If  women  only 
had  wisdom,  they  would  sit  down  when  Sunday  comes  an'  let  the 
men  take  a  turn  at  gettin'  things  ready. 

[Rises  and  moves  slowly  off  stage.] 


KATY'S    LETTER. 


Comedy  Sentimental  Irish-Dialect  Musical  Monologue  for  a  Woman. 


LADY   DUFFERIN. 


Introduction. 
In  quick  time. 


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AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48 


15 


5-P- 


-=£-=!- 


£=^= 


^ 


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IE 


f  11 


OCH!  girls,  dear,  did  ye  iver  hear? 
I  wrote  me  love  a  letter, 
An',  altho'  he  can  not  read, 

Sure,  I  tho't  'twas  all  the  better. 
For  why  should  he  be  puzzled 

Wid  hard  spellin'  in  the  matter, 
Whin  the  mane-ing  is  so  plain, 
That  I  loved  him  faithfully! 


Interlude.     Vivace. 

# 


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I  wrote  it  an'  I  folded  it, 

An'  put  a  seal  upon  it ; 
'Twas  a  seal  a'most  as  big 

As  the  top  av  me  own  new  bonnet ! 
Fer  I'd  not  be  havin'  the  postmaster 

Makin'  remarks  upon  it ! 
(Sure  I  said  inside  the  letter — 

That  I  loved  him  faithfully!) 


16 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


Me  heart  was  full,  but  when  I  wrote, 

I  dared  not  put  the  half  in ; 
The  neighbors  knew  I  loved  him — 

Sure   they're   mighty    fond   av   chaffin' ! 
An'  I  darsn't  write  his  name  outside, 

For  fear  they  would  be  laughin'. 
So  I  wrote — "From  little  Kate,  to  the  one 

That  she  loves  faithfully." 


m 


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Now,  girls,  would  ye  belave  it  ? 

That  postman,  so  consated, 
No  answer  will  he  bring  me — 

It's  long  that  I  have  waited ! 
But  maybe  there's  no  letter, 

For  the  raison  I  have  stated — 
That  he  can  nayther  read  nor  write, 

But  he  loves  me  faithfully! 

{Repeat  2d  Interlude.) 


Charlie.  Mary,  suppose  you  sing  something. 
Mary.  Oh,  it's  so  late,  Charlie,  I'm  afraid  it'll  wake  every  one. 
Charlie  [with  appearance  of  distress].  That's  too  bad. 
Mary  [tenderly].  But  why  do  you  want  me  to  sing,  dear? 
Charlie.  Why,  you  see,  a  fellow  I  owe  $5  to  has  been  waiting 
outside  for  me,  and  I  thought  if  you'd  sing  he'd  go  away. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48  17 

AMERICA    AND    ENGLAND. 


GEORGE   HUNTINGTON. 


[May   be   recited   with   "America,"    or   "God    Save    the    King"    as    musical   background; 
or  words  may  be  sung.     Music  on  page   18.] 


TWO  empires  by  the  sea, 
Two  nations  great  and  free, 
One  anthem  raise. 
One  race  of  ancient  fame. 
One  tongue,  one  faith,  we  claim, 
One  God,  whose  glorious  name 
We  love  and  praise. 

What  deeds  our  fathers  wrought, 
What  battles  we  have  fought, 

Let*  fame  record. 
Now,  vengeful  passion,  cease, 
Come,  victories  of  peace ; 
Nor  hate  nor  pride's  caprice 

Unsheath  the  sword. 

Though  deep  the  sea  and  wide 
'Twixt  realm  and  realm,  its  tide 

Binds  strand  to  strand. 
So  be  the  gulf  between 
Gray  coasts  and  islands  green, 
With  bonds  of  peace  serene 

And  friendship  spanned. 

Now,  may  the  God  above 
Guard  the  dear  lands  we  love, 

Both  East  and  West. 
Let  love  more  fervent  glow, 
As  peaceful  ages  go, 
And  strength  yet  stronger  grow, 

Blessing  and  blest. 


18 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


AMERICA. 


Samuel  F. 

Smith. 

Henry  Cabby. 
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thee, 
breeze, 
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lib  -  er    -  ty,        Of  thee       I  eing;          Land  where     my 

no  -  ble  free,  Thy  name      I  "love;            I  love      thy 

all  the  trees  Sweet  free  -  dom's  song;          Let  mor    -   tal 

lib  -  er    -  ty,  "To  thee      we  6ing:  Long  may       our 


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fa      -  thers  died,  Land 

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land  be  bright  "With 


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of  the  pil    -  grim's  pride, 

woods  and  tem     •  pled  hills; 

all  that  breathe       par  -  take; 

free    -  dom's  ho      -      ly  light; 


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From  ev    -      'ry  moun  -   tain       side      Let  free    -  dom      ring! 

My  heart  with  rap    -    ture  thrills,  Like  that  a    -    bove. 

Let  rocks  their  'si    -    lence  break,  The  sound  pro  -    long. 

Pro   -  tect        us  by  thy  might,  Great  God,  our     King! 


gjE 


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m^m 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  43  19 

HOUSEHOLD   THRUSH. 
LILL1E   E.    BARR. 


MANY  a  bird  sings  merrily 
When  the  sun  shines  gay  and  bright ; 
When  all  the  trees  are  green  and  gold 

And  the  woods  are  full  of  light. 
But  a  heigh  ho  !  and  a  hey  ho ! 

When  the  woods  are  dull  and  gray, 
Of  all  the  birds,  I  love  the  thrush, 
For  he  sings  on  a  cloudy  day. 

[Thrush   music,    page    54.] 


ONLY    A    DAGUERREOTYPE. 


LUCY   CARROLL. 


JUST  as  the  last  rays  of  the  winter's  sun  were  sinking  in  the 
west,  the  old  stage-coach  came  rattling  down  the  road  and 
stopped  before  the  big  house. 

A  young  man  stepped  out  with  a  bound  of  joyous  youth. 
Through  the  garden,  up  the  steps  and  into  the  broad  hall  he  ran. 
Once  inside  he  took  off  his  heavy  coat  and  hung  it  on  the  rack. 
All  this  he  did  without  saying  a  word.  He  walked  into  the  par- 
lor, where  a  warm  fire  blazed  on  the  hearth.  On  entering  the 
room  he  stopped,  but  finding  no  one  within,  he  walked  to  the 
fire  and  spread  his  palms  to  the  cheery  blaze. 

Looking  around  him,  as  if  to  be  sure  no  one  was  there,  he  took 
from  his  pocket  a  daguerreotype.  He  fondled  it  a  moment,  then 
opened  it  to  gaze  upon  the  fair  face  of  his  promised  love.  It 
was  hard  to  close  that  little  leather-case  and  put  it  back  in  its  rest- 
ing-place next  his  heart, — but  he  did  it  only  to  take  it  out  about 
a  dozen  times  and  kiss  the  face  imprisoned  by  glass. 

First  one  candle  then  another  would  sputter,  then  go  out.  Even 
the  fire,  which  had  held  so  many  beautiful  pictures  for  its  human 
companion,  turned  gray  as  the  dreamer  sank  into  a  deeper  dream- 
land. 


20 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


Everything  was  as  still  as  death  when  the  old  clock  on  the  stair 
chimed  the  midnight  hour  and  the  man  before  the  cold  gray  ashes 
got  iip,  smiled  to  himself,  took  his  candle  and  ascended  the  stairs, 
humming  softly  to  himself, 

"Comin'  thro'  the  Rye." 

As  the  winter's  sun  was  sinking  into  the  west,  an  old  man 
stepped  from  a  carriage  and  walked  slowly  through  the  garden,  up 
the  steps  and  into  the  house,  where  all  was  bright  and  cheerful. 

He  took  off  his  coat  and  walked  to  the  room,  where  children's 
voices  could  be  heard.  He  was  greeted  by  many  voices,  but  the 
one  he  most  looked  for  came  from  a  little  old  lady  with  gray 
curls.  She  rose  from  her  chair  and  came,  as  she  had  done  for 
many  years,  with  open  arms  and  upturned  face. 

The  children  had  gone  to  bed  and  they  were  alone,  seated  be- 
fore the  fire,  when  the  old  man  said: 

"Mary,  forty  years  ago  tonight  I  was  sitting  right  here  before 
this  hearth  looking  at  this."  And  he  drew  from  his  inside  pocket 
a  worn,  faded  little  leather-case.  On  the  inside  was  the  image 
of  the  face  beside  him, — golden-haired  then,  but  whitened  now. 

They  sat  for  quite  a  while,  hand  in  hand,  with  her  head  resting 
on  his  shoulder. 

Suddenly  the  clock  on  the  stair  chimed  the  midnight  hour  and 
the  fire  was  cold  and  gray. 

Smiling  to  himself,  he  took  her  by  the  hand  and  taking  their 
candle,  led  the  way  up  stairs,  softly  humming  together: 

COMIN'  THRO'  THE  RYE. 


-t--*.-* 


sP#lpili^pi| 


I.-  If        a     bod-y  meet     a     bod-y,      Com-in' 

2.  If        a     body  meet     a.  bod-y,      Com-in' 

3.  Amang  the  liain  there    is      a  swain,  I      dear-ly 


thro'  the  rye.  If  a  bod-y 
frae  the  town,  If  a  bod-y 
love    my-scl'?  But  what's  his  name,  or 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48 


21 


kiss      a     bod-y,     Need    a       bod-y'  cry?     Ev  -  'ry     lassie 

greet    a     bod-y,     Need    a       bod-y         frown?    Ev  - 'ry     lassie 
where's  his  hame,  I       din-    na     choose  to        toll.       Ev  - 'ry     lassie 


has  her  laddie  ; 
has  her  laddie ; 
has.   her  laddie ; 


r 


Kane,  they  say,  ha'e  I ;       Yet  a'  the  lads  they  smile  on  me.  When  comin'  thro'  the   rye. 


-e*J: 


*  ?  • 


SANDS    O'    DEE. 


CHARLES    KINGSLEY. 


OMARY,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  o'  Dee." 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dark  with  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 
Interlude. 


The  creeping  tide  came  up  along  the  sand, 

As  far  as  eye  could  see, 
The  blinding  mist-  came  down  and  hid  the  land, 

And  never  home  came  she. 
[Interlude  as  above.] 

Oh,  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  maiden's  hair 
Above  the  nets  at  sea? 


22 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


Never  was  weed  or  fish  that  shone  so  fair, 
Among  the  stakes  o'  Dee. 
Interlude. 
Andante. 


They  brought  her  in  across  the  cruel  foam 

To  her  grave  beside  the  sea, 
But  still  the  boatman  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home, 

Across  the  sands  o'  Dee. 


Piano. 


Sam,  a  good  old  colored  preacher,  said,  in  announcing  the  hymn, 
"Turn  to  page  76 — page  76 — and  sing,  wid  de  voice  and  de 
understan'en' : 


'As  I  was  goin'  down  our  alley, 
I  met  a  cullard  gal   named   Sally, — ' 


"No,  brederen,  I  must  have  made  a  mistake ;  try  hymn  on  page 
67.     I'll  read  de  fust  two  lines  of  de  hymn  on  page  67 : 


"  'Shoo,    fly,    don't   bodder   me; 
1   b'long  to   Company    D.' 


"Now,  dat  don't  sound  'actly  right.  I  nebbe  heered  such  a 
hymn  sung  in  dis  church.  I  b'leeve  de  Baptizz  cullard  brudder, 
who's  a  locust  preacher,  and  who  met  me  dis  evening  in  de  dark, 
stole  my  Meffodist  hymn-book,  and  put  dis  Baptizz  hymn-book  in 
de  place  of  it." 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  43  23 

BUNDLE    OF    LETTERS. 


Retrospective  Verse  Monologue  for  a  Woman. 


Arranged  by   BLANXHE   BAIRD   WINFIELD. 


[This  selection  is  effectively  given  as  a  study  in  concentration.  Any  dress  may 
be  worn.  Reader  should  have  bundle  of  old,  torn  letters,  several  old  photographs, 
some  locks  of  hair,  few  faded  rosebuds  and  violets.  She  looks  them  over  and  com- 
ments on  friends  of  her  girlhood.  While  she  unties  bundle  she  sings,  humming  air 
during   "Long,   long  ago."     Music  on  page  24.] 


A     BUNDLE  of  letters,  old  and  worn, 
Yellow,  defaced,  and  ah,  me !  some  of  them,  torn. 
I  found  them  as  I  searched  through  a  trunk  to-day 
Where  years  ago,  I  had  laid  them  away; 
And  my  heart  is  filled  with  both  joy  and  pain 
At  sight  of  these  well-known  lines  again. 

[Hum  a  few  measures.] 
This  is  from  one  who  loved  me  well, — 
Ah,  perhaps  better  than  I  could  tell ; 
Fate  proved  unkind,  hearts  may  be  true 
And  love  be  blind,  as  known  to  some  few. 
And  so  we  parted,  and  he  has  won 
A  bride  who  is  not  the  first  loved  one. 
{Pick  up  a  ballroom  card,  humming ;  then  say:] 
Often  we  meet  in  places  where  mirth  runs  high, 
And  I  pass  him  by,  with  a  laughing  eye, 
For  time,  the  healer,  has  made  amends, 
And  he  and  I  are  the  best  of  friends. 

[Hum  a  fezv  bars.] 
Yet,  friends,  do  you  wonder  that  to-day 
I  hold  these  letters,  old  and  gray, 
And  press  them  to  my  lips,  while  tears  overflow, 
And  hallow  that  memory  of  long  ago  ? 

[Sing:] 
"Gone  are  the  days  when  my  heart  was  so  gay, 

Long,  long  ago,  long,  long  ago  ; 
Gone  are  the  friends  that  to  me  were  so  dear, 


24 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


LONG,  LONG  AGO 


*=£=*= 


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p 


Gone  are  the  days  when  my  heart  was  so  gay, 


:M= 


** 


^&-^±gr& 


m — *- 


m       > « — -»- 

HA  i     T- 


P 


■Kir 


P — d- 


*=ir- 


3C=5t 


Long,  long  a  -  go, 


long,  long  a  -  go; 


I 


=i=t 


H— 1 1 --^ 1- 


^F*Z^S&5* 


-1 — fr 


p 


^^=^^ 


*=tc 


Gone  are  the  friends  that  to  me  were  so  dear, 


P 


ft* 


=^">-«l* 


J^-      ^L     ',-V 


£fc=-=±: 


Long,  long  ago,  long  ago." 
[Pick  up  and  read  silently  a  card,  while  humming  the  last  line.] 
And  here's  another,  a  wedding  card! 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48  25 

Ah,  life  for  her  proved  very  hard. 
A  broken  heart  and  a  blighted  life — 
Ended  now  is  the  pain  and  strife. 
[Read  aloud  a  funeral  notice:  "Ellen  B.  Henry,  aged  twenty- 
five/'] 

And  yet  memory  brings  her  back  to-day, 
In  all  her  dainty,  sweet  array. 
He  was  so  proud  and  he  looked  so  sincere, 
Well,  only  God  can  make  some  things  clear. 
[Hum  the  air,  while  looking  into  the  envelopes.     In  one  are 
flowers  and  some  locks  of  hair,  over  which  laugh,  while  exclaims 
ing,  every  once  in  a  while:  "0  me!  How  silly  those  things  are» 
Indeed  I  was  giddy/'] 

And  here's  a  lock  of  chestnut  hair ! 
Ah,  that  was  mine  ere  time  and  care 
Stole  out  its  color,  and  to-night, 
It  shadows  my  sad  eyes  still  and  white. 

[Look  at  old  photograph.] 
From  out  of  the  past  you  come  to  me. 
Shall  it  be  the  last  ?    'Twere  better  so, 
For  I  alone,  perhaps,  would  care, 
For  those  dear  days  of  long  ago. 

[Hum,  while  reading  some  letters.]\ 
Many  a  dream  has  vanished  away, 
Many  an  ideal  turned  to  clay, 
Many  a  friendship  proved  untrue, 
Constant  and  faithful,  oh,  how  few. 

[Sing:] 
"Tell  me  the  tales  that  to  me  were  so  dear, 

Long,  long  ago,  long,  long  ago  ; 
Sing  me  the  songs  I  delighted  to  hear, 
Long,  long  ago,  long  ago." 

[Look  again  at  photograph.] 
Ah,  if  you  were  here,  all  my  griefs  were  removed, 
I  would  forget  that  you  ever  had  roved. 


26  WERNER'S  READINGS 

And  try  to  believe  that  you  loved  as  I  loved, 

Long,  long  ago,  long,  long  ago. 
Do  you  remember  the  path  where  we  met? 
Ah,  you  said  you  ne'er  could  forget, 
Then  to  all  others,  my  smile  you  preferred, 
Love  when  you  spoke  gave  a  charm  to  each  word. 

[Sing:] 
"Still  my  heart  treasures  the  praises  I  heard, 

Long,  long  ago,  long  ago." 
I  shall  and  must  tie  up  the  bundle  again, 
With  loving  words  and  some  throbs  of  pain, 
And  tenderly  lay  on  my  fire  to-night, 
And  watch  them  like  things  fade  from  sight. 
[Hum  air  while  binding  letters  together.] 


BLACK    ANKLE    BREAK-DOWN. 


Negro  Character  Study. 
HARRY   STILLWELL   EDWARDS. 


Arranged  from  "De  Valley  an'  De  Shadder,"  by  permission  of  the  author, 
by  Kate  Weaver  Dallas.     Music  by  Mrs.  Minnie  Schoeller. 


[Reciter  may  recite,  dance  and  sing,  or  others  may  do  the  dancing  and  singing. 
An  effective  rendering  is:  Reciter  stands  out  of  sight  of  audience,  or  at  side  of 
stage  in  view  of  audience.  During  recital  curtain  rises,  disclosing  scene  reciter  is 
describing,  dancing,  singing,  etc.,  being  done  by  others.  If  others  beside  reciter  take 
part,  stage-setting  may  be:  Background  showing  log-hut,  with  smoke-stack,  at  foot 
of  hill,  up  which  winds  path  disappearing  under  large  tree.  Other  huts  at  greater 
distance.  In  foreground,  at  side  of  stage,  are  shed,  corn-crib,  fodder-stack,  fences, 
wagons,  mule,  cow,  hen  and  chickens,  negro  children,  girl  with  baby,  colored  women 
at  work.  Hut  with  porch  right  side  of  stage.  Stage  grows  dark.  Old  man,  seated 
on  porch,  looks  at  boy  seated  next,  picks  up  banjo  from  table,  and  begins  to  play. 
Suddenly  children  run  forward  and  dance,  others  clapping  applause  at  end  of  dance. 
Woman  bursts  through  crowd  and  speaks.  Old  man  strikes  up  tune  again  for  her 
dance  and  for  others'  dance.  Another  presentation  is  to  have  reciter  first  tell  the 
entire   story   followed  by  tableaux  as  already   described.] 


A  LOG  hut  with  a  stack-chimney,  at  the  foot  of  a  long,  low 
hill  where  the  path  that  winds  around  it  disappears  under 
a  great,  spreading  black-gum ;  another  log  hut  with  a  stack-chim- 
ney by  a  belt  of  pine  woods ;  and  another  of  like  build  beyond 
where  a  group  of  water-oaks  marks  a  bend  in  the  swamp;  and 
others  still,  right  and  left  in  the  distance  until  the  number  runs 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48  27 

up  into  the  dozens — this  is  Black  Ankle.  But  not  all  of  it.  Yon- 
der are  a  shed  and  a  corn-crib,  and  a  leaning  stack  of  fodder, 
and  a  blue-stem  collard  patch,  and  snake-fences,  and  vehicles  that 
have  stood  in  the  weather  until  sunstruck ;  a  forlorn  mule ;  a  cow- 
that  all  her  life  has  evidently  practiced  the  precept/'It  is  better  to 
give  than  to  receive ;"  a  stray  hen  with  her  little  family  under  a 
gorgeous  sunflower — this  is  Black  Ankle. 

But,  hold !  There  are  little  negroes  in  single  garments  that 
reach  to  their  knees  only,  and  the  ten-year-old  girl  bearing  in 
her  arms  the  infant.  There  are  the  clothes  fluttering  on  the 
knotted  lines  propped  up  by  forked  saplings.  There  are  black 
women,  with  tucked  up  dresses,  scrubbing  over  the  wash-tub, 
and  in  the  air  the  marvelously  mellow  plantation  hymn,  and  on 
the  ground  the  shadow  of  the  circling  hawk,  and  the  grasshopper 
balancing  himself  in  mid  air,  and  the  dipping  mocking-bird  on 
the  haw-bush.     Ah,  now  indeed  is  this  Black  Ankle. 

The  sun  had  gone  down  and  the  shadows  were  creeping  out  of 
the  swamp  veiling  Black  Ankle.  All  the  poverty  sign-boards 
were  buried  in  the  gloom,  and  where  the  cabins  stood  fiery  eyes 
twinkled  through  the  night.  But  under  the  great  black-gum, 
where  the  spring  gushed,  a  pine-knot  fire  blazed  merrily,  piling 
up  the  shadows  and  painting  in  waving  light  the  cabin  front. 
The  little  porch,  over  which  ran  the  morning-glory  and  the 
cypress-vine,  stood  forth  as  though  projected  by  the  brush  of  a 
mighty  artist.  From  every  direction,  by  every  path,  there  came 
dusky  figures,  the  simple  children  of  the  soil,  filling  the  air  with 
songs  and  laughter,  and  passing  into  the  light.  In  a  chair  on  a 
table,  his  back  against  the  black-gum,  sat  a  little  wrinkled  fiddler 
with  his  battered  instrument  under  his  chin,  the  bow  twisting 
and  sawing.  And  by  his  side  drumming  on  the  strings  with  a 
straw,  stood  a  boy,  who,  ever  and  anon,  turned  his  head  to  laugh 
at  some  gay  sally  from  the  company  gathered  upon  the  smooth 
well-trodden  ground,  A  favorite  dancer  exhibited  his  skill  until 
breathless,  and  was  turning  away  amid  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd, 
when  a  young  woman  forced  her  way  in  crying : 


28 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


"Git  erway,  niggers ;  lemme  come !"  The  crowd  shouted  "Lou, 
Lou !"  "Lou'll  knock  de  shine  off  er'un !"  "You  got  ter  shufiT 
now,  Beeswing." 

The  teeth  of  the  young  man  who  beat  with  the  straw  shone 
whiter  and  broader  as  a  short,  active  girl  broke  into  the  circle. 
Beeswing  grinned.  "Come  back,  nigger,"  she  cried.  The  crowd 
laughed  again,  and  as  the  girl's  feet  began  to  keep  time  with  the 
music,  a  dozen  hands  patted  upon  as  many  thighs,  and  a  voice, 
to  which  the  chorus  replied,  added  words  to  the  strain  of  the 
fiddle,  the  dancer  adapting  her  steps  to  the  hints  given : 


For  -  ward,  too,         Pret  -  ty     lit  -  tie    Lou. 
The  dancer  held  her  dress  back  and  "walked  around,"  turning 
her  toes  in,  and  the  crowd  laughed.     But  the  song  continued. 
[Same  music  as  above.] 

"Pretty  littl'  Lou ; 
Pretty  littl'  Lou; 
Cross  step,  Lou; 
Pretty  littl'  Lou; 
Balance  too; 
Pretty  littl'  Lou." 
The  girl  walked  around  amidst  a  cloud  of  cotton,  revealing 
her  ankles,  and  the  leader  started  the  laugh  by  chiming  in  with 
her.     [Repeat  song  if  wished,  with  new  gestures.] 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48 


29 


Beeswing  broke  out  of  the  circle,  and  the  dance  ended  amid 
the  shouts  of  the  company. 

The  tune  changed.  Old  Morris,  the  fiddler,  began  a  quaint 
march,  and  two  by  two  the  dancers  promenaded  around,  the 
clear  voices  of  the  women  leading  the  song. 


Turn  'er  high,     Turn,     la  -  dy;     Turn    low, 


S 


— ^1 

0- 


V  -0         -0-         m 

turn;        Turn    dat      la   -  dy,     Cym-lin; 


3 


.-l_j»_g=_j.zg=a._. 


=£==TC 


i 


Turn 'er     high;     Turn, turn,  la -dy,       Turn  low, 


S 


turn : 


Turn   dat      la  -    dy 


The  men  turned  their  partners  with  one  hand  held  overhead, 
and  "the  lady"  spun  until  her  dress  swelled  out  like  a  balloon. 
Then  she  bowed  and  the  men  patted  quick  time,  all  singing  while 
their  partners  sprang  to  the  center  and  danced. 


* 9 9 ' 


Knock,  candy— can-dy  gal;     No  harm    to 


— n- 


=3= 

—tg • — m- 

knock,  can-dy 


1 


*=£ 


*=kt 


=t 


pret-ty     in     de      face. 


Lit  -  tie,  in     de     wais'       an' 

-i — \ 1 IV 


No  harm     to 


30 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


:1: 


knock  can-dy,  Two  waj'S     to     knock  can  -  dy 

— H -I J— 


i 


q= 


— I— 


gal,      No  harm  to     knock  can  -  dy. 
Again  came  the  quaint  song,  "Turn'er  high,  turn  lady;"  again 
the  slow  march,  and  again  the  whirl.    This  time  the  men  sprang 
to  the  center,  and  old  Morris,  sweeping  his  head  to  his  knee, 
struck  up  a  break-down,  to  which  the  women  sang : 


-N 1 

_l 0 


-A- 


— fc-1^ — *a-:M 


You    sif    de  meal,  You  gimme    de  husk,  You 


=fe 


bake    de    bread.  You    gim  -  me    de      eras', 


*— .J: 


1 


You    bile    de    pot,  You  gimme  de  grease; 


5 


1 


•     -0- 
Ole  Kate,  git    o  -  ver,    Ole  Kate,  git    o  -  ver. 

Several  verses  followed,  first  the  women  dancing,  then  the  men, 

ever  returning  to  the  promenade.     Dance   followed   dance,   jig, 

shuffle,    song,   and    refrain,    and    the    hours    glided   by.     A   tiny 

silver  crescent  was  the  moon,  but  it  had  long  since  sunk  behind  the 

hill.     Old  Morris  nodded,  but  his  bow  kept  moving.     "Wake  up, 

old  man,"  shouted  a  voice  as  the  rout  went  round.     "Hush  yo' 

mouf,  nigger,"  he  answered  back.     "Dis  fiddle  knows  me,   an' 

hit'u'd  keep  er-singin'  ef  I  uz  to  go  plum  ter  sleep."     And  the 

livelier   wave   in   "Sallie    Gooden,"    which   the   interruption   had 

stimulated,  faded  away  into  monotony  again.     So  went  the  night. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48  31 

SONG    OF    THE    CAMP. 


BAYARD    TAYLOR. 


[Speaker  recites  down  to   mention   of  song,   then  unseen   chorus  sings   "Annie    Laurie' 
until  close   of   poem.     Music   on   page   32.] 


GIVE  us  a  song!"  the  soldiers  cried. 
The  outer  trenches  guarding, 
When  the  heated  guns  of  the  camp  allied 
Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 

The  dark  Redan,  in  silent  scoff, 
Lay  grim  and  threatening  under, 

And  the  tawny  mound  of  the  Malakofr 
No  longer  belched  its  thunder. 

There  was  a  pause.    A  guardsman  said, 
"We  storm  the  forts  to-morrow ; 

Sing  while  we  may,  another  day 
Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow." 

They  lay  along  the  battery's  side 

Below  the  smoking  cannon — 
Brave  hearts  from  Severn  and  from  Clyde, 

And  from  the  banks  of  Shannon. 

They  sang  of  love  and  not  of  fame, 

Forgot  was  Britain's  glory ; 
Each  heart  recalled  a  different  name 

But  all  sang  "Annie  Laurie." 

Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song, 

Until  its'  tender  passion 
Rose  like  an  anthem,  rich  and  strong, 

Their  battle-eve  confession. 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


ANNIE   LAURIE. 


Andante. 


1.  Max     well-ton  braes       are 

Her       brow;V....     is      like        the 
3.   Like      dew        on  the    go         wan 


dew, 
swan, 
feet; 


And  it's    there       that    An  -  nie      Lau  -  rie,  Gie'd      me  her  prom     -  ■  ise 

Her  face  it      is       the      fair  -  est  That      e'er         the    sun        shone 

And  like  winds         in    sum  -  mer      sigh-  ing,  Her     voice  is    low  and 


true,  Gie'd    me 

on —  That     e'er 

sweet —         Her    voice 


her  prom 
the  sun 
is     low 


ise'  true, 
shone  on, 
and  sweet, 


Which       ne'er 
And  dark 

And  she's    a' 


for  -  got         will    be; 
blue    is  her 

the  world         to     me 


5e;  ■) 

'e;    [ 
ne;  3 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48  33 

Dear  girl !  her  name  he  dared  not  speak ; 

But,  as  the  song  grew  louder, 
Something  upon  the  soldier's  cheek 

Washed  off  the  stains  of  powder. 

Beyond  the  darkening  ocean  burned 

The  sunset's  bloody  embers, 
While  the  Crimean  valleys  learned 

How  English  love  remembers. 

And  once  again  a  fire  of  hell 

Rained  on  the  Russian  quarters, 
With  scream  of  shot  and  burst  of  shell, 

And  bellowing  of  the  mortars. 

And  Irish  Nora's  eyes  are  dim, 

For  a  singer  dumb  and  gory; 
And  English  Mary  mourns  for  him 

Who  sang  of  "Annie  Laurie." 

Sleep,  soldiers !  still  in  honored  rest 

Your  truth  and  valor  wearing ; 
The  bravest  are  the  tenderest, 

The  loving  are  the  daring. 


SUMMER    SHOWER. 


Words  and  Music  by  THEODORE  MARZIALS. 


[Recited  to  musical  background.     Music  on  page  34.] 


OH !  'tis  nothing  but  a  shower,  but  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
Don't  you  think  you'd  better  shelter  by  the  chestnut-tree, 
For  the  wind  is  blowing  sweet,  and  you've  daisies  for  your  feet, 

And  should  you  care  to  dance  I  can  pipe,"  said  he. 
She  was  going  to  the  town  in  a  fresh  print  gown, 
And  a  dainty  color  flies  the  daintier  it  be, 


34 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


And  the  piper's  eyes  are  blue,  and  he  looks  her  thro'  and  thro', 
And  the  parson's  piping  bull-finch  can  not  pipe  as  sweet  and 
true; 

And  there's  not  a  bird  in  June  knows  such  a  merry  tune, 
As  "Merry,  merry,  merry  in  the  North  Countree, 

With  a  hey,  my  lad,  and  a  play,  my  lad, 
And  merrily  I'll  dance  to  thee !" 

SUMMER   SHOWER. 


gjA  P  P  P  C  r~   M  fi  }  }  *'  r   •>  ~5=pJ*  ^  ^  J      J 

<tf                                                             1         l           J?    *                            t      P     £*  J5 

gg£    h  g   /'  J3  g    g    g    I  I   g         r         j« 


Now  that  little  summer  shower  must  have  ceas'd  for  quite  an  hour, 
As  I've  heard  a  shower  can  do  in  the  North  Countree. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48  35 

And  she'd  got  a  pretty  shoe,  she  liked  to  shew  it  too, 

But  she  could  not  dance  forever,  tho'  light  was  she, 
So  she  sat  down  to  rest,  and  the  rose  from  her  breast 

She  gave  it  him  so  prettily,  and  oh !  so  fair  was  she, 
That  the  piper  blush'd  and  sigh'd,  and  he  stutter'd  when  he  tried 

To  say  something  about  roses,  and  I  don't  know  what  beside, 
For  she  toss'd  her  dainty  head,  and  started  up  and  said,  . 

"Merry,  merry,  merry  in  the  North  Countree, 
But  it's  nay,  my  lad,  and  it's- play,  my  lad, 

And  merrily  I'll  dance  to  thee  !" 

Now  that  little  summer  shower  must  have  ceas'd  for  quite  an  hour, 

As  I've  heard  a  shower  can  do  in  the  North  Countree, 
But  if  you're  in  the  shade,  with  a  very  pretty  maid, 

It  can  not  matter  much  what  the  weather  may  be ; 
And  he  must  have  said  his  say,  for  in  his  her  fingers  lay, 

As  he  took  a  thread  of  meadow  grass  and  measured  for  the  ring. 
And  she  look'd  him  thro'  and  thro',  while  he  vow'd  he'd  lov'd  her 
true 

Since  the   day  he  shar'd  her  book  at  church  and  heard  her 
sweetly  sing. 

And  not  any  one  that  June,  sang  such  a  merry  tune, 
As,  "Merry,  merry,  merry  in  the  North  Countree, 

With  away,  my  lad,  and  a  stay,  my  lad, 
And  merrily  I'll  dance  to  thee !" 


Father.  Do  you  think  my  daughter  will  ever  be  able  to  sing? 

Vocal  Teacher.  Nevare,  Monsieur. 

Father.  Then  what's  the  use  of  giving  her  any  more  singing- 
lessons  ? 

Vocal  Teacher.  A  great  deal  of  use,  Monsieur.  I  give  her 
lessons  two,  three  month  more,  and  bye  and  bye  I  teach  her  that 
she  cannot  sing.  That  is  a  vare  good  musical  education  for  the 
young  lady. 

Father.  You  are  right!  If  she  can't  sing,  and  you  can  con- 
vince her  she  can't,  the  lessons  won't  be  thrown  away. 


36  WERNER'S  READINGS 

HE    WAS    HER    ONLY    SON. 


IRENE   PETTIT   M'KEEHAN. 


[Singing  is  done   by  invisible   chorus   or  single  voice.] 


Suggestions  for  Tableaux  During  Recital. 

Tableau  I. — Stage-setting :  Railway-station  with  one  car  in  background. 
Soldiers,  in  single  file,  enter  car,  last  soldier  has  curly  hair,  and  is 
kissed  by  mother  who  seems  not  to  hear  men  shouting,  band  playing. 
Curly-haired  soldier  enters  car,  sits  at  window,  smiles  at  and  bids  mother 
good-bye.  Bell  rings,  soldiers  cheer ;  hats  and  flags  are  waved  from  car- 
windows.  Band,  which  had  stopped  playing  when  cheering  began,  now 
strikes  up  "Star-Spangled  Banner."     Soldiers  and  people  on  stage  all  sing. 

Tableau  II. — Stage-setting :  Night  camp-scene ;  stars,  dark  clouds 
in  distance ;  occasional  lightning  and  thunder.  Body  of  water  in  front 
background;  in  front  of  trees,  stage  L.,  army-tent  with  flaps  opened,  dis- 
closing curly-haired  soldier,  wrapped  in  blanket,  tossing  restlessly  and 
gazing  out  at  sky.  Other  tents  around  with  closed  flaps.  Suddenly,  banjo 
music  is  heard  and  voice  singing  "Home,  Sweet  Home."  Tent-flaps  are 
suddenly  thrown  open  and  soldiers  stand  reverently  and  silently  before 
tents.     Curly-haired    soldier   covers    face    with   hand   and   sobs    out   loud. 

Tableau  III. — Stage-setting :  Hospital-scene ;  white  cots ;  doctor  bending 
over  and  feeling  pulse  of  curly-haired  soldier;  doctor  shakes  head  despair- 
ingly, turns  and  speaks  to  chaplain ;  doctor  leaves ;  chaplain  kneels,  lays 
hand  on  soldier's  head,  brushes  back  curls ;  boy  opens  eyes,  faintly  smiles ; 
boy  asks  chaplain  to  sing  "Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic."  Other  invalid 
soldiers  lift  heads,  look  at  chaplain;  nurses  pause  in  their  work.  Soldier 
closes  eyes  at  end  of  song,  whispering  faintly,  "Good-night,  Mother,  kiss 
me."  He  is  kissed.  Bird  sings  in  distance.  Silence  ensues.  Chaplain 
rises,  crosses   soldier's  hands   on  chest,   draws  sheet  over  soldier's   face. 

Tableau  IV. — Stage-setting :  Church-interior.  Coffin  wrapped  with 
Stars  and  Stripes.  Many  people.  Choir  sings  "Lead,  Kindly  Light." 
Minister  appears  to  be  speaking.  Mother,  with  sorrowful  face,  bends  over 
casket,  kisses  soldier's  forehead,  turns  away  heart-broken.  Reciter  says 
"He  was  her  only  son." 


HE  was  her  only  son. 
She  kissed  him  good-by  and  smiled  bravely  through  her 
tears  as  he  followed  the  long  file  of  soldiers  into  the  car.  The 
station  was  crowded  with  people,  but  she  saw  none  of  them ;  the 
men  shouted,  the  band  played,  but  she  did  not  hear.  She  saw 
only  the  eager  face  of  the  boy  at  the  car  window ;  heard  only  his 
bright  "Good-by,  mother!"  The  bell  rang;  there  was  a  great 
cheer  and  the  train  moved  slowly  off,  gray  hats  and  waving  flags 
at  every  window.     The  band  had  stopped  playing,  but  now,  as  if 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  4S  37 

inspired,  they  began  again — the  grandest  song  in  all  the  world. 

With  one  voice  the  throngs  in  the  station,  the  soldiers  on  the  cars, 

caught  it  up,  and  above  the  rattle  of  the  trucks,  the  clang  of  the 

bell  and  the  puffs  of  the  engine,  rose  the  clear,  sweet  strains : 

Oh,  say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's  early  light 
What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last  gleaming? 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  through  the  perilous  fight, 

O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched  were  so  gallantly  streaming ; 
And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 
Gave  proof  thro'  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still  there. 
[Music  on  page  43.] 

Mother  and  son  sang  with  the  rest.  In  the  voice  of  one  there 
was  a  sob,  but  the  other's  rang  out  strong  and  triumphant,  with  a 
thrill  of  pride  and  patriotism. 

♦  *  =fc  >k  >K 

He  was  her  only  son. 

He  lay  in  the  doorway  of  his  tent,  trying  to  sleep.   It  was  night, 
and  as  he  looked  up  into  the  tropic  sky,  blazing  with  stars,  he  saw 
the  brilliant   constellation   of   the   southern   cross   shining   down 
upon  him.     Far  away  to  the  southward  there  was  a  bank  of  great 
black  clouds,  from  which  came  now  and  then  a  flash  of  lightning 
and  the  long  answering  roll  of  thunder.     Between  lay  the  ocean, 
with  its  restless  waves,  here  black  as  night,  there  silver-tipped  as 
if  the  stars  had  fallen  into  the  sea.     Behind  the  white  city  of  tents 
rose  the  dark,  shadowy  forest,  through  whose  branches  the  rising 
night  wind  crept,  moaning  as  if  in  sorrow.     Save  for  this  and  the 
distant  thunder  and  the  beat,  beat,  beat  of  the  water  on  the  sand, 
all  was  still.     The  boy  lay  there  in  the  night  awake  and  alone. 
He  was  tired  and  heavy  hearted;  he  thought  of  his  mother  far  off 
in  the  northland,  and  yearned,  like  a  thirsty  man  in  the  desert, 
only  for  the  touch  of  her  hand.     All  at  once  he  heard  the  tinkle 
of  a  banjo  and  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice  singing  in  the  distance  : 
'Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam. 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home ! 
A  charm  from  the  skies  seems  to  hallow  us  there, 
Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  not  met  with  elsewhere. 
Home  !  home  !  sweet,  sweet  home ! 
There's  no  place  like  home ! 

[Music  on  page  40.] 


38  WERNER'S  READINGS 

As  he  sang,  man  after  man  awoke,  and  came  out  to  the  door 
of  his  tent  to  hear.  No  one  spoke;  they  listened  reverently,  as 
if  to  an  angel  singing.  The  boy  covered  his  face  with  his  hands, 
and  great  tears  trickled  out  through  his  fingers  and  fell  to  the 
ground. 

He  was  her  only  son. 

The  surgeon  bent  over  the  low  pallet  in  the  hospital  tent  and 
held  the  soldier's  thin,  hot  wrist  in  his  own  practiced  fingers. 
Then  he  shook  his  head  slowly  and  turned  away. 

"It's  no  use,  chaplain.  Help  him  to  die,  if  he  needs  it;  for  he's 
going  fast." 

The  busy  doctor  passed  on,  and  the  kindly,  gray-haired  chaplain 
took  his  place.  He  knelt  by  the  bed,  and  laid  his  cool  hand  gently 
on  the  flushed  forehead,  brushing  back  the  matted  curls.  The 
blue  eyes  opened,  and  the  lad  looked  up  with  a  tired,  grateful 
smile. 

"Did  you  hear?" 

"Yes." 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do*  for  yoii,  my  boy?" 

"Sing  to  me,  please,  the  song  about  the  lilies." 

And  the  chaplain  sang.     He  was  not  a  beautiful  singer  at  the 

best,  and  now  his  voice  was  husky  and  broken,  but  the  men  raised 

their  heads  from  their  pallets  to  listen,  the  nurses  paused  in  their 

work,  and  even  the  doctor,  accustomed  to  such  scenes,  tiptoed 

softly  from  bed  to  bed : 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 
With  a  beauty  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me ; 
As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free. 
While  God  is  marching  on. 

[Music   on  page   41.] 

When  the  song  was  ended  the  boy's  eyes  closed,  and  he  whis- 
pered faintly,  "Good-night  now.  Mother,  kiss  me  good-night." 
He  felt  the  touch  of  a  kiss  on  his 'lips  and  smiled,  for  he  was 
satisfied.  Not  a  man  stirred.  A  bird  from  the  low  bush  out- 
side flew  far  up  into  the  sky,  as  if  to  carry  the  news  to  heaven  of 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48  39 

the  coming  of  a  human  soul,  and  the  whirr  of  his  wings  was  heard 
in  the  quiet  room.  The  chaplain  rose,  folded  the  fever-wasted 
hands,  and  drew  the  sheet  up  over  the  white  face,  still  and  cold  as 
sculptured  marble. 

ifC  IfC  JJC  5fC  5fC 

He  was  her  only  son. 

Lying  in  the  flower-laden  casket,  in  his  bright  new  uniform, 

with  one  cheek  pressed  lovingly  against  the  flag  they  had  placed 

beneath  him,  and  the  smile  still  on  his  lips,  he  was  so  brave  and 

beautiful,  as  she  looked  down  upon  him — it  could  not  be  that  he 

was  dead.     Often  she  had  watched  him  sleeping,  and  her  mother 

heart  had  dreamed  of  his  future.     He  should  go  forth  into  the 

world  some  day,  she  had  thought,  her  knight,  her  hero — and  all 

men  would  love  and  honor  him   for  his  noble  deeds  and  loyal 

heart,  yet  they  two  would  still  be  all  in  all  to  each  other,  as  they 

had  ever  been,  she  and  he.     But  now !    What  was  this  the  choir 

was  singing  so  softly?    She  paused  in  her  mournful  reverie  and 

listened : 

So  long  Thy  power  has  blessed  me,  sure  it  still  will  lead  me  on 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till  the  night  is  gone, 
And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile, 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since  and  lost  awhile ! 

[Music   on  page  42.] 

Orators  and  poets  repeated  the  glories  of  the  war,  praised  the 
patriotism  and  self-sacrifice  of  the  men  who  had  gone  forth  to 
fight  the  battles  of  their  country.  But  there  was  one  who  "sat 
over  against  the  treasury  and  beheld  how  the  people  cast  money 
into  the  treasury  and  many  that  were  rich  cast  in  much.  And 
there  came  a  certain  poor  widow  and  she  threw  in  two  mites, 
which  make  a  farthing.  And  he  called  unto  him  his  disciples,  and 
saith  unto  them:  'Verily  I  say  unto  you,  That  this  poor  widow 
hath  cast  more  in,  than  all  they  which  have  cast  into  the  treasury : 
For  all  they  did  cast  in  of  their  abundance ;  but  she  of  her  want 
did  cast  in  all  that  she  had.'  " 

She  bent  low  above  the  casket  and  looked  for  the  last  time  at 
the  quiet  face.     There  was  no  bitterness,  no  rebellion  in  her  heart, 


40 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


only  a  great  sorrow  that  would  not  be  comforted.     She  touched 
her  lips  to  the  cold,  pale  forehead,  and  a  tear  glistened  for  a 
moment  in  his  dark  hair.    Then  she  turned  away,  and  the  world, 
on  a  sudden,  seemed  empty. 
He  was  her  only  son. 

HOME,  SWEET  HOME. 
ft         Andante.  

1.  'MM  pleas-ures  and     pal  -  a  -  ces,     though    we    may  roam,    Be     it    er  -  er      so    hum  -  ble.there's 


2.     An    ex  -  lie  from .  home,   splendor    daz-zles     in     vain;     Ob,     give   me    my    low-ly  thatch'd 


lggp=g^=Fg 


-*+-^*.-US. 


lijgs^rSggg 


-t*— *r 


-t*—v- 


no  place  'like  home ;  A  charm  from  the  skies  seems  to  hal-  low  us  there,  Which  seek  thro'  the  world,  is  ne'er 


cot-tage    a -gain,  The  birds  sing-ing  gai-ly,tl>at  came  at  my  call;  Oh,   give  me  that   peace  of  mind 


lipi^|pl§iiiti|§^|^#^j 


K$&. 


{gfepp^ 


^|^-|E|=|fcSl5i^5giipS 


met  with  elsewhere.Home,home,sweet,sweethome,Be  it      ev  -  er    so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home. 


P^lipPSigiliiP^^ii^SE^I 


r    -  W" 

dear  -  er  than  all.    Home,home,sweet,sweethoine,Be  it      ev  -  er    so  humble,there'sno place  likehome. 


Igi^fe 


jin^^^^fei 


She.  Have  you  ever  heard  that  eight-year-old  violinist  who  is 
creating  such  a  sensation  ? 

He.  Oh,  yes !     I  heard  him  in  Berlin  twelve  years  ago. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48 


41 


BATTLE-HYMN  OF    THE  REPUBLIC. 


W= 


£53fcE=£^  jr  Jr-  jSCT^T^ 


Mine      eyes   have"  seen    the    glo  -  ry    of     the  com  -  tug    of       the  Lord :    He     is 
I    have  seen  Him     in    -  the  watch-fires  of       a    hun- died  cir-clingcomps;  They  have 
I    have  read      a        fi    -  ery  gos  -  pel  writ     in  burn-ished  rows   of   steel ;     As    Ve 
He  has  sound- ed     forth    the  trum-'pet  that  shall  nev  -  er     call     re -treat;     He    Is 
In    the  heau  -  ty       of      the     lil  -  ies  Christ  was  horn    a -cross    Jhe   sea;    JJVith  a 


£ 


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tramp-  ling    out  ihe    vin  -   tage,  where    the  grapes     of    wrath     are  stored ;  He  hath 
build  -  ed    Him.       an     al    -     tar     in         the     eve-   ning  dews     aud  damps;     I     can 

deal     with  my  con  -  tem  -  ners     so       with  you  -    my  grace    shall  deal ;  Let  the 

sift    -    ing    out  the   hearts    of     men       be-  fore      His    judg  -  ment  seat;  Oh,  he 

glo    -     ry      in  His     bo    -  som    that     trans-  fig   -  ures   you      and    me ;  As    He 


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loosed  the  fateful  light-ning  of     His  ter  -  ri  -  ble  swift  sword :  His  truth  is  marching  oh. 

read  His  righteous  sentence  by    the  dim  and  flar- ing  lamps:  His   day   is  marching  on. 

He  -  ro  born  of    wo-man,  crush  the  serpent  with  His  heel:    Since  God  is  marching  on. 

swift,  my  soul,  to   an  -  swer  Him !  be  iu  -  bi-  lant,  my  feet !     Our    God  is  marching  on. 

died    to  make  men  ho  -  ly,  let     us    die     to  make  men  free:  While  God  is  marching  oh. 


g^f^£=MHM=^££fa 


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Glo  -  ry.   glo  -   ry    Hal  -   le  -  hi   -    jah !       Glo  -  ry,   glo  -  ry    Hal  -   le  -  lu 


jah! 


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Glo    -    ry,     glo  -   ry     Hal  -   le    -    lu    -     jah !        His    truth    is    march  -  ing      on ! 


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42 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


&BE 


LEAD,  KINDLY  LIGHT. 

£=d— I 


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on, 


1.  Lead,  kind -ly   Light,  a  -  mid    th'encircling       gloom,  Lead    Thou     me 

2.  I     was    not    ev  -    er    thus,  nor  pray'd  that  Thou         Should'st  lead      me  on, 

3.  So    long  Thy  pow'r  has  blest  me,   sure     it       still  Will      lead      me  on, 


r.-r — s—  -• ■» * — |—*- 


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I 

The  night    is      dark,    and     I       am    far  from  home, 

I     lov'd   to    choose   and    see    my   path;  but  now 

O'er  moor  and      fen,    o'er  crag   and     tor  -  rent,  till 


Lead  Thou  me  on. 
Lead  Thou  me  on. 
The    night     is         gone  \ 


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Keep    Thou      my 

I         lov'd      the 

And      with       *he 


► * — gat — 

feet;  I         do       not       ask 

gar     •     ish      day;    and,    spite 
morn       those     an  -    gel       fa 


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to  see  .  . 

of  fears, 

ces  smile. 


*         g — '— :g *■? *— 3— a :^ — M| 


The  dis  -  taut 
Pride  rul'd  my 
Which        I  have 


scene; 
will: 
lov'd 


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P 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48 


43 


THE    STAR-SPANGLED   BANNER. 


Solo  oe  Quartet 


1.  Oh,     say,  can  you  see,    by  the  dawn's  ear- ly    light,  What  so    proudly    we  hail' d  at  the 

2.  On  the  shore  dimly    seen  thro' the  mists  of     the  deep.Where  the  foe's  haughty  host   in  dread 

3.  And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vaunting  -  ly  swore,  That  the   hav  -  oc    of  war    and  the 

4.  Oh,     thus  be     it    ev  -  er  when  freemen  shall  stand  Be  -  tween  their  loved  home  and  wild 
*    _+_mm m * = fcs k  -'    -    ■&• 

'    Ft 


I 


rp 


fm 


twilight's   last  gleaming, Whosebroadstripesandbrightstars,thro'theper-il-ous   fight, O'erthe 

si  -  lence    re  -  po  -  ses,   What   is     thatwhichthe  breeze,  o'er  the  tower  -  ing  steep,  As  it 

bat  -  tie's    con  -  fu  -  sion,'     A  ,  .       home  and      a    country  should  leave  us  no  more?  Their 

war's  des   -  o   -   la  -  tion ;  Blest  with    vict'ry  and  peace,maytheheav'n-rescuedlandPraisethe 

J 1     -r     0 m. * * j .\ ,,  $r — m—m 


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ram-parts  we  watch'd,were  so  gal  -  lant-ly  streaming? And  the  rockets'  red  glare,the  bombs 
fit  -   ful  -  ly    blows,  half  conceals,  half  dis-clos-es?  Now  it  catch-es     the  gleam  of   the 
blood  has  wash'd  out    their  foul  footsteps'  pol  -  lu  -  tion.  No         re  -  fuge  could  save   the 
pow'r  that  hath  made   and   preserv'd  us      a    na  -  tion  I  Then     conquer   we  must,  when  our 


«-r^ 


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bursWng  in  air,  Gave  proof  thro' the nightthat  our  flag  was  still'there,  Oh,  say  does  that 
morning's  first  beani,  In  full  glo  -  ry  re  -  fleet -ed,now  shines  on  the  stream  :'Tis  the  star-spin-gled 
hireling  and  slave  From  the  ter-ror  of  flight  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave:  And  the  star-span-gled 
cause  it    is-  just,  And     this    be  our  mot  -  to :  "In  God    is  our  trust  1"  And  the  star-span-gled 


EE=F=ff 


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star-span-gled  ban-ner      yet      wave") 

ban-ner:  oh,  long  may    it         wave] 

ban-ner     in    tri-umphdoth    wave  VO'er  the  land  of   the    free,    and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

ban-ner     in    tri  -  umph  shall   wave  J 


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44  WERNER'S  READINGS 

NEW    SONG    OF    "DIXIE." 


MAUD   LINDSAY. 


[May  be  recited  with  "Dixie"  as  musical  background;   or  words  may  be.  sung. 
Music  on  page  45.] 


o 


H,  from  the  hill  and  from  the  valley- 
Southern  sons  and  daughters  rally. 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  hurrah !  Dixie-land. 
Come  all  a  song  of  triumph  singing, 
Through  the  wide  world  send  it  ringing. 
Hurrah !  hurrah !  hurrah !  Dixie-land. 

CHORUS. 

Exalt  the  name  of  Dixie ! 
Hurrah !  Hurrah ! 
In  Dixie-land  we'll  take  our  stand 
To  live  and  die  for  Dixie. 
Three  cheers,  three  cheers, 
And  one  cheer  more  for  Dixie ; 
Three  cheers,  three  cheers, 
And  one  cheer  more  for  Dixie. 

For  Southern  skies  with  stars  are  gleaming, 
Southern  fields  with  richness  teeming. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  hurrah !  Dixie-land. 
Oh,  Southern  hearts  are  brave  forever, 
Southern  love  will  fail  you  never. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  !  Dixie-land. 

Go  read  the  past's  heroic  story, 
Read  the  future's  message  "Glory." 

Hurrah !  hurrah  !  hurrah  !  Dixie-land. 
And,  armed  with  truth  and  clothed  with  beauty, 
Rise  to  meet  the  present's  duty. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah !  hurrah !  Dixie-land. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48 

For  peace  has  given  what  war  denied  you, 
Friends  of  foes  who  once  defied  you. 

Hurrah !  hurrah  !  hurrah !  Dixie-land. 
Look !  nature  with  rare  charms  has  dressed  you ; 
God  with  His  own  hand  has  blessed  you. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  hurrah !  Dixie-land. 

Lo!  now  our  land  with  love  is  lighted — 
North,  South,  East  and  West  united ! 

Hurrah !  hurrah  !  hurrah !  Dixie-land. 
In  God  our  trust,  and  our  salvation, 
Forward,  march !  a  mighty  nation. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  !  Dixie-land. 


Allegro 


DIXIE. 


rp 


. — J-1 — A- 


j^^^ 


ss 


1. 1 

2.  Old 

3.  His 

4.  Now 

6.  Dar's 


wish      I  was        in     de    land      ob      cot  -   ton,     Old      times 

Mis   -  sus  mar   -  ry  "Will      de     wea  -  ber,"  Wil  -lium 

face     was  sharp    as      a      butch-  er's     clea  -  ber,      But      dat 

here's     a  health  to     the    next    old   Mis-sus,An      all        de 

buck-wheat  cakes    and  In   -  gen'    bat  -   ter,    Makes  you 


dar  am 

was  a 

did  not 

gals  dat 

fat    or  a 


3E3: 


Si 


^n 


& 


:*=&= 


/ 


3^=J 


S 


m 


not    for-got-ten,Looka-way  1  Look  a-way  I  Look  a -way!  Dix-ieLand.  In 

gay  "de-cea-ber;Look  a-way  I  Look  a-way  !  Look  a -way  I  Dix-ieLand.  But 

seem  to  greab^ei^Look  a-way  !  Look  a-way  !  Look  a -way  1  Dix-ieLand.  Old 

want  to  kiss  us;  Look  a-way  I  Look  a-way  !  Look  a-way!  Dix-ieLand.  But 

lit  -  tie   fat- ter;Look  a-way  1  Look  a-way  1  Looka-wayl  Dix-ieLand.  Den 


*=s 


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46 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


Dix  -  ie       Land  whar     I    was  born    in,       I 


Dix  -  ie  Land  whar    I    was  born   in,       Ear  -  ly        on      one  fros  -  ty  morn-in,Look  a  • 

when  he  put     his       arm  a -round 'er, He  smiled  as  fierce  as  a  for  -typound-er,Looka  - 

Mis  -  sus  act  -  ed  de  fool  -ish   part,  And    died  for  a    man  dat  broke  her  heart,  Look  a  • 

if     you,  want   to    drive 'way  sor-  row,      Come  and    hear   dis  song  to-mor-row,Look  a< 

hoe    it  down  an  scratch  your  grab- ble, To  Dix -ie's     land  I'mboUndto  trab-ble,Look  a 


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Dix  -  ie     Land. 


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IT  &  A  V  U» 

Den     I  wish  I     was    in  Dix  -  ie,     Hoo  -  ray  !  Hoo  -  ray  1    In 


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HI 


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ix  -  ie  Land  I'll 


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jyz — k *— ■-* » d — 

take    my   stand     To  lib      and   die 

in        Dix  -  ie, 

f   1* 

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AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48 


47 


> 
way  down  south    in    Dix  -"ip, 


A  -  way,     A  -way,      A  -  way  down  south  in  Dix  -  ie. 
-F-    i  I a 


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DANCE    AT    UNCLE    BOB'S. 


ERNEST    McGAFFEY. 


[Music    is    played    as    speaker    enters    and    begins    to    speak.     Music    continues    while 
speaker  recites  and  dances.     Music  on  page  48.] 


THE  clash  of  a  lively  reel, 
The  sway  of  a  supple  bow, 
Shrill  is  the  catgut's  peal, 

As  over  the  boards  they  go, 
Balancing  on  the  heel, 

And  then  with  the  heel  and  toe, 
Dancing  the  steps  they  know, 
As  back  and  forth  they  wheel. 

Jarring  the  half -shut  door, 

Forward  they  slide  and  back, 
First  and  the  second  "four" 

With  never  a  chance  to  slack. 
Rosin  the  bow  some  more, 

As  the  dancers  swerve  and  "tack,' 

Dancing  along  a  crack 
There  on  the  puncheon  floor. 

Hark  to  each  vibrant  string, 

As  the  winged  notes  take  flight, 
"Buffalo  girls,"  they  sing, 


48 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


I 


"Are  you  coming  out  tonight  ?" 
And  the  brass  andirons  ring 
By  hickory  embers  bright, 
As  quick  to  the  left  and  right, 
The  boys  their  partners  swing. 

DANCE  AT  UNCLE  BOB'S. 


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AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48  49 

Sharp  is  the  prompter's  call, 

As  they  shuffle  to  and  fro; 
"Side  four — there  by  the  wall — 

Forward" — and  off  they  go : 
"Back," — to  the  rear  they  fall, 

Now  it  is  "do"  "si"  "do," 

And  then  o'er  the  ebb  and  flow 
Echoes  "promenade  all." 

And  the  soul  of  the  violin, 

Turned  mad  by  the  gleaming  moon, 
Leaps  up  from  the  rhythmic  din, 

To  dance  with  the  dancing  tune, 
And  in  and  out  and  in, 

Under  rough  oak  rafters  hewn, 

It  threads  with  noiseless  shoon, 
Where  the  lads  and  lassies  spin. 

Now  with  the  heel  and  toe, 

Then  with  the  nimble  heel ; 
Hisses  the  gliding  bow, 

Shrill  is  the  catgut's  peal, 
And  over  the  planks  they  go, 

And  round  and  around  they  wheel, 

Till  the  east  grows  gray  as  steel, 
And  the  drowsy  roosters  crow. 


BABY'S    BEDTIME. 


EBEN    E.    REXFORD. 


THIS  is  baby's  bedtime ; 
Dimplechin  climbs  on  my  knee, 
With  "Mamma,  I's  dest  as  s'eepy 
An'  tired  as  I  tan  be." 


50 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


So  I  take  up  the  little  darling, 
And  undress  the  weary  feet 

That  have  been  making  since  daylight 
A  music,  busy  and  sweet. 

"Tell  me  a  pitty  'tory," 

She  pleads  in  a  sleepy  way, 
And  I  ask,  as  I  cuddle  and  kiss  her, 

"What  shall  I  tell  you,  pray  ?" 
"Tell  me" — and  then  she  pauses 

To  rub  each  sleepy  eye — 
"How  ze  big  pid  goes  to  market, 

An'  ze  'ittle  pids  all  c'y." 


Then  I  tell,  as  I  smooth  the  tangles 

Ever  at  war  with  the  comb, 
How  the  big  pig  went  to  market. 


fa=£^ 


4v- 


■h=si 


This    lit  -  tie    pig  went  to    market, 


dk    hv  _fwf"=l — =srr~ 

F~fh 

7fc-$=±=2- 

~j — i— i 

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tr 

w 

This  lit  -  tie  pig  stay'tl  home,  This  Iit-tle 


-P N- 


K— g— -d~ 


pig  had  roast  beef  And  this  lit  -  tie 
rit 


N 


2=* 


pig-gie  had  none,  This  lit-tle  pig  cried 


i 


m=&=& 


-tt 


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pee-we-we,    I    can  -  not  find  my  home. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48  51 

And  I  count  on  the  rosy  fingers 

Each  little  pig  once  more. 
And  she  laughs  at  the  "pitty  'tory,'" 

As  if  unheard  before. 

Then  I  fold  her  hands  together 

Upon  her  breast,  and  she, 
In  her  lisping,  sleepy  fashion, 

Repeats  it  after  me. 

"Zis  'ittle  pid  went  to  martet,  # 

Zis  'ittle  pid  stayed  home, 
Zis  'ittle  pid  had  roas'  beef, 

Zis  'ittle  pid  didn't  det  a  sindle  bit,, 
Zis  'ittle  pid  eyed  pee-we-we, 

I  tan — "     [Sighs  and  yazvns.] 
Before  it  is  ended,  the  blossoms 

Of  her  eyes  in  slumber  close, 
But  the  words  that  are  left  unuttered 

He  who  loves  the  children  knows. 


MORNING    IN    BIRDLAND. 


Poem  by  EDITH  M.  THOMAS. 


As  arranged  and  read  by  Mary  S.  Thompson. 


[Part  of  music  written  by  Wilson  Flagg.  Part  of  music  from  "Wood 
Notes  Wild,"  by  Simeon  Pease  Cheney ;  used  by  permission  of  Messrs. 
Lee  &  Shepard.j 


[The  violin  and  the  flute  come  nearest  to  the  sounds  produced  by  birds.] 


AT  one  in  the  morning  all's  silent  in  Birdland, 
All  light  wings  are  folded,  and  curtained  all  eyes, 
At  two  in  the  morning  some  dreaming  young  thing 

A  snatch  from  its  daytime  roundelay  tries  ; 
At  three  in  the  morning  Early-Bird  chides  his 
Slow  neighbors — and  then  falls  asleep  unaware  i 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


At  four  in  the  morning  all,  merry  and  mad,  pour 
A  medley  of  song  on  the  quivering  air. 


[RoUn.] 


l£^EE2EEl^=r^Z~£=ZE^ 


Lit,    lit,      lit,      lit,     lit, 

[Bluebird] 


leu,     leu,     leu. 


==*z=U=L*=zkz==&z 


Chee  -  oo  -  \vy,  Chee  -  oo      wy. 
[NutTiatch.] 


:f=ffz 


'=e=i>=±^. 


"Wait,  wait,  wait, wait, wait,  wait, Ick-y,      ick  y,    ick-y. 


[Pewee.] 


Pe  -  wee, 


pe  -  wee. 


[Robin.] 


-Tgfr»  f- 


[Another  Song  at  Daybreak.] 


-IT 1  ! 


[Bluebird,.] 


I 


;flTnf=*F 


£=£?£ 


J 


Hear    me,  hear    me. 

[ito&ira.] 


EES  —  u  — f g — _ — >*— »— is — a^=y 

*^       Quip,  quip,       quip,      '.quip. 


'-J*- 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48 


53 


Tu, 


re,  lu,  re, 

[Wood  Thrush.] 


lu. 


[Robin.] 

• .        t?~      g       »? 


Oe,         oe,        oe,        up.      up,       up. 
[Bluebird. ' 

Cheway,    che-chute. 

Good  morrow,  O  sweet  Morning ! 

Kiss  me  with  sun  and  wind, 
And  without  word  of  warning 

Drive  winter  from  the  mind. 
Then  let  the  heart  be  taken 

With  many  a  happy  sigh — 
To  hear  the  songs  awaken 

From  out  the  bluebird  sky; 
[Bluebird.] 


«: 


^=£ 


=m=g^mi 


The  robin's  silver  fluting 
Upon  the  maple  tops ; 

[Robin.] 


The  sparrow's  gay  disputing 
In  every  hedge  and  copse ; 


54 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


brisk. 


m£z 


guttural, 


^^33^ig 


[Song  Sparroiv.] 
tr. 

f  1  J  J  MLJ"  f  1  f  I 


The  thrush's  mellow  whistle 

From  woodlands  cool  and  moist; 

[Thrush.] 

Drop     it     drop     it      cov-er  it  up     cover  it  up      pull   it    up  pull  it    up 


lS3Z_p^ — * — *— S-c  — 


^«.  -m.  .m-  -m- 
t=.3=-rr-- 


-1=-* 


1 


pull  it  up      tut   tut   tut  see  Bee  see  there  you  have  it     hae       it      hae      it 


=^z=f^±~SfS^ 


tut    tut  tut  work  away  work  away   drop  it  drop  it      cover  it  up  cover  it  up. 

The  finch  upon  the  thistle, 
[Grass  Finch.'] 


The  wood-dove  echo-voiced; 
[Dove.] 


^r^;=i pc^: 


Coo  -    OO  COO     -     00. 

The  pewee  softly  calling; 
[Feivee.] 

-08 |S r_S?  m S r-^-« n 


Pe  -  a    -    -  wee       pe  -  a     -     wee. 

The  warblers'  hidden  choir 

Where  apple  flowers  are  falling 

And  darts  the  oriole's  fire. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48 


55 


[Oriole.] 


E^=S==S=^=fr=^t===S=djT= 


j=*3& 


Cur  -  ly,      cur  -  ly,      Hey  I  Chick-er-way,  cbicker  -  way,  chew,        cur  -  ly, 
cur  -  ly,      cur  -  ly,   kah,    kue,        Hey !   Chicker-way,  chicker-way,   chew. 

The  swallow  builds  her  dwelling 

Of  clay  from  sunny  pools, 
The  doves  their  loves  are  telling — 

The  scolding  wren  o'er-rules. 

[Wren.] 
Sharp  and  shrill. 

A     J.     -A     -i-  A-  ±  A-  *._ 

r_^«_4= -1= t= t=_t_t=_1-_1 


Tut   -    tut  -  tut   -   tut 


—     _     B     P.  tr  ,   , 


^gpjqaqBa=iWS=P=^=S=sfcgag^g^^5i 

J 1 L—l ■        '        '        ■  ■        -        — U 


tut  -  tut  -  tut      eu. 


Up  starts  the  golden  flicker 
And  hurls  his  notes  about, 

The  blue  jays  tilt  and  bicker — 
The  cuckoo's  a  sly  scout ! 

But  hark !  from  last  year's  stubble, 
How  cheerily  pipes  the  quail ! 

[Quail.] 

=-  IE  =-    ^ 


m 


•*      Bob  White  More    Wet 

While  bobolink  notes  up-bubble 
[Bobolink.] 

PI  -  leu     pi  -  e 


Bob  -  o  -  link,  bob  -  o  -  link. 


o  -  link. 


56 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


From  every  grassy  swale. 
The  blackbird,  free  from  trouble, 
[Blackbird.] 


m^mgmg 


m 


»/  - 1 


K  -  r  -  r-e   -   kre     -       kre. 

Pours  out  a  gossip  tale, 
And  laughs  the  crow  at  pillage 

In  fields  of  planted  corn — 
All  drunk  with  spring's  distillage, 

All  mad  with  joy  this  morn ! 


:»  m  g^gfg-^-p — , 


it— t2E 


Too  too       tillere  illere 


too  tillere 

8va~ 


tillere. 


^^^^^s^g-^frr^^=g=^^^££££fig^ 


Too       issele 


tse        se  se  Be        s  s  s  s  se 


&= 


Too    tillery  tillery 

'■&  -t»-»-<m-»m 


oo     vil  -  lil  -  il    vil  -  lil  -  il 


tr  tr  tr 

Too    too       illery  illery  eh      villia       villia       villia 


Too 


oo        airvee 


tillere  tillere 

Good  morrow,  O  sweet  Pleasures ! 

Good  cheer  unto  my  songs, 
That  come  in  thronging  measures 

As  spring  birds  come  in  throngs. 


ehu.     _ 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO. 


57 


fl  am   so   often    asked   for   the   notes   of   the   canary   that   I    subjoin   the    following 
songs  from  Gardiner's  "Music  of  Nature:"] 


8va.* 


[Canary .] 


Sweet, 
8va.. 


w  e  e  t,         sweet, 


g^     g^     g^     


S-w-e-e-t, 


w    -    e    -    e    -    t. 


[In  choosing  the  bird-songs  for  the  medley  at  the  close  of  the  first  stanza,  I 
have  repeated  the  robin  because,  as  is  well  known,  he  is  our  principal  singer  in  the 
morning  chorus.] 


NEARER THERE. 


Poem  by  ANDREW  H.   SMITH. 


Directions  by  Stanley  Schell. 


Selection  may  be  given  with  invisible  male  chorus,  or  reader 
may  sing  softly  before  beginning  recitation,  also  between  first  and 
second,  and  between  second  and  third,  stanzas  of  recitation. 
Chorus  must  take  care  to  sing  softly.  Reader  enters,  and,  stand- 
ing with  hands  clasped  in  front  and  eyes  uplifted,  listens  to  chorus 
singing  first  stanza  of  hymn, 

"Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee; 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 

That  raiseth  me, 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be — 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee." 

[Music  gradually  dies  aivay  at  close  of  stanza,  and  reader,  look- 
ing at  audience,  recites:] 


58  WERNER'S  READINGS 

On  the  ridge  so  fierce  was  the  battle 

It  seemed  like  a  picture  of  hell, 

Just  behind  us  a  farmhouse  was  standing, 

Already  shattered  by  shell. 

They  bore  him  in  gently  and  laid  him 

On  the  hard  and  comfortless  floor. 

[Reader  stops  as  chorus  suddenly  begins  to  sing  softly:] 

"Though  like  a  zvanderer, 
The  sun  gone  down, 
Darkness  be  over  me, 
My  rest  a  stone; 
Yet  in  my  dreams  I'd  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee," 

[Reader  quietly  moves  to  couch  at  right  front  of  stage  and 
partly  reclines,  resting  tveight  on  one  elbow.     Chorus  continues:] 

"Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 
Nearer  to  Thee." 

[As  singing  dies  away,  reader  speaks,  using  free  arm  for  ges- 
tures:] 

Sing  "Nearer,  my  God,"  and  leave  me-, 

For  me  you  can  do  nothing  more. 

Go  back  to  the  boys  and  help  them 

Hold  the  ridge  with  their  uttermost  might; 

And  tell  them  from  me  it  is  easy, 

So  easy  to  die  for  the  right. 

[Reader  sinks  on  couch  as  if  very  weak.  Chorus  sings  softly:] 

"Or  if  on  joyful  wing; 
Cleaving  the  sky, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot, 
Upward  I  fly." 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48 


59 


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60  WERNER'S  READINGS 

[Reader  rises  and  joins  in  singing:] 

"Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 
Nearer  to  Thee." 

[Reader,  with  uplifted,  inspired  expression,  steps  forward:] 

He  joined  with  his  comrades  in  raising 
That  wondrously  beautiful  hymn, 
But  quickly  his  pale  cheek  grew  paler, 

More  lax  grew  each  quivering  limb ; 
His  voice  became  weaker  and  weaker, 

But  his  lips  still  whispered  the  prayer. 
He  was  nearer  each  moment,  nearer, 

And,  as  we  watched,  he  was  There. 


BETTY    CAREWE'S    DANCE. 


BOOTH   TARKINGTON. 


[From  "Two  Vanrevels."] 


[Betty   Carewe,   just   home   from   a    convent   school,    makes    her    social    debut   at   a   ball 
given  by  her  father.     The  place  is  a  Northwestern  town.     Time,  about  1845.] 


ALL  night  long  the  fiddles  had  been  swinging  away  at  their  best ; 
all  night  long  the  candles  had  shone  in  thin  rows  of  bright 
orange  through  the  slits  of  the  window-blinds  ;  but  now,  as  the  day 
bioke  over  the  maples,  the  shutters  were  flung  open  by  laughing 
young  men,  and  the  drivers  of  the  carriages,  waiting  in  the  dusty 
street,  pressed  up  closer  to  the  hedge,  or  came  within  and  stretched 
themselves  upon  the  lawn,  to  see  the  people  waltzing  in  the  day- 
light. 

Over  the  unwearied  plaint  of  French-horn,  violin,  and  bassoon, 
rose  a  silvery  confusion  of  voices  and  laughter  and  the  sound  of  a 
hundred  footfalls  in  unison,  while  from  the  open  windows  there 
issued  a  warm  breath,  heavily  laden  with  the  smell  of  scented 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48  61 

fans,  of  rich  fabrics,  of  dying  roses,  to  mingle  with  the  spicy 
perfume  of  a  wild  crab-tree  in  fullest  bloom,  which  stood  near 
enough  to  peer  into  the  ballroom. 

"Believe  mc,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms, 
Which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day, 
Were  to  fade  by  to-morrow  and  fleet  from  my  arms, 
Like  fairy  gifts  fading  away — - — " 

So  ran  the  violin  in  waltz  time,  so  bassoon  and  horn  to  those 
dulcet  measures ;  and  then,  with  one  accord,  a  hundred  voices 
joined  in  the  old,  sweet  melody : 

"Thou  zi'oiddst  still  be  adored  as  this  moment  thou  art, 

Let  thy  loveliness  fade  as  it  will; 
And  around  the  dear  ruin,  each  wish  of  my  heart 
Would  entwine  itself  verdantly  still." 

And  the  jealous  crab-tree  found  but  one  to  overmatch  itself 
in  beauty;  a  lady  who  was  the  focus  of  the  singing;  for,  by  the 
time  the  shutters  were  flung  open,  there  was  not  a  young  man  in 
the  room,  lacked  he  never  so  greatly  in  music  or  in  voice,  who  did 
not  heartily  desire  to  sing  to  Miss  Betty  Carewe,  and  who  did 
not  now  (craning  neck  over  partner's  shoulder)  seek  to  fix  her 
with  his  glittering  eye,  while  he  sang  "Oh,  believe  me"  most 
directly  and  conspicuously  at  her.  For  that  night  was  the  be- 
ginning of  Miss  Betty's  famous  career  as  a  belle.  She  was  in 
white,  touched  with  countless  small  lavender  flowers ;  there  were 
rows  and  rows  of  wonderful  silk  and  lace  flowers  on  her  skirt, 
and  her  fan  hung  from  a  rope  of  great  pearls. 

There  had  been  much  discussion  of  her,  though  only  one  or  two 
had  caught  glimpses  of  her,  and  when  the  evening  came,  two  of 
the  most  enthusiastic  dancers  and  love-makers  of  the  town,  the 
handsome  Tappinghan  Marsh  and  that  doughty  ex-dragoon  and 
Indian  fighter,  stout  old  General  Trumbler,  were  leaning  effective- 
ly against  the  little  railing  about  the  musicians'  platform  when 
Mr.  Carewe  entered  the  room  with  his  daughter  on  his  arm. 
Never  were  lady-killers  more  instantaneously  tamed  and  sub- 
jugated by  the  power  of  the  feminine  eye. 


62  WERNER'S  READINGS 

The  same  Tappingham  was  he,  who,  maddened  by  the  General's 
triumphantly  familiar  way  of  toying  with  Miss  Betty's  fan  be- 
tween two  dances,  attempted  to  propose  to  her  during  the  sun- 
rise waltz.  Having  sung  "Oh,  believe  me"  in  her  ears  as  loudly 
as  he  could,  he  expressed  the  wish — 'quite  as  loudly — "That  this 
waltz  might  last  for  always  !" 

That  was  the  seventh  time  it  had  been  said  to  Betty  during  the 
night,  and  only  the  cessation  of  the  music  aided  her  in  stopping 
the  declaration  before  it  was  altogether  out.  At  that  point,  the 
General,  mounting  a  chair  with  complete  dignity,  and  lifting  a 
glass  of  wine  high  in  the  air,  proposed  the  health  of  his  young 
hostess.  He  made  a  speech  of  some  length.  As  the  old  gentle- 
men finished,  before  the  toast  was  drunk,  they  took  up  the  song 
again,  and  all  joined  in,  lifting  their  glasses  to  the  blushing  and' 
happy  girl  clinging  to  her  father's  arm : 

"Thou  wo'uldst  still  be  adored  as  this  moment  thou  art, 
Let  thy  loveliness  fade  as  it  will; 
And  around  the  dear  ruin,  each  zvish  of  my  heart. 
Woidd  entwine  itself  verdantly  still/' 

No  one  was  afraid  to  "let  out"  his  voice;  their  song  went  full 
and  strong  over  the  waking  town,  and  when  it  was  finished  the 
ball  was  over  too. 

The  veranda  and  the  path  to  the  gate  became  like  tropic  gar- 
dens. The  sound  of  the  voices  and  laughter  drew  away,  slowly 
died  out  altogether;  the  silence  of  the  street  was  strange  and  un- 
familiar to  Betty.  She  ran  to  the  hedge  and  watched  the  musi- 
cians, who  were  the  last  to  go.  When  they  had  disappeared,  she 
faced  the  truth  with  a  deep  sigh;  the  long  glorious  night  was 
finished  indeed. 


Mrs.  Youngbride.  Oh,  Charlie,  I  saw  the  loveliest  diamond 
necklace  at  Tiffany's  to-day ;  a  perfect  beauty,  and  so  cheap  too ; 
it  can  be  bought  for  a  song. 

Charlie.  I  never  sing. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48 
THOSE  ENDEARING  YOUNG  CHARMS. 


63 


1.  Be  -  lieve  me,  if      all  those  en  *  dear-ing  young" charms.  Which  I  gaze  on  so  fona-Iy     to 

2.  It  is      not  while  beauty   and  youth  are  thine  own,  And  thy  cheek's  unprofaned  by 


mil  \t'lttit^^Yi[}l'Hz:iT.y 


day,  Were  to      change  by     to  -  mor-row      and    fleet     frOifl  my   arms,      Like 

tear,  That    the    fer    -    vor    and  faith  of        a      soul      can    be,    known,  To  whicl 


hrficifgc  cFcii:  cr 


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fair  -  y      gifts   fad   -   ing     a  •  -   way,  Thou  wouldst  still    .be       a'- dored      as      this 

time  will    but    make  thee  more   dear,  Oh,     the    heart   that    has    tru.       ly      loved,. 


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mo-ment  thou  art:      "Let  thy  love    -li-ness  fade         as       it       .will, 
nev-er       for -gets,      But  as    tru    -    ly    loves  on  to        the      close: 


And 

As      the 


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round  the  dear  ru  -in,  each  wish  of    my  heart,  Would  entwine  if -self  ver  -  dantly       still, 
sun  -  flower  turns  on   her    god  when  he  sets,     The  same  look  that  she  gave  when  he   rose. 


W&. 


rfttfrffET 


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Visitor.  Does  your  daughter  play  the  piano? 
Father.  No — she  works  it  to  death. 


64  WERNER'S  READINGS 

HIGHLAND    LOVERS. 


Musical  Dialogue  for  i  Male  and  i  Female. 


MARY   L.    GADDESS. 


[Man's  dress  is  full  Highland  costume,  consisting  of  kilt,  scarf,  and  hose  of  plaid, 
with  black  waist,  black  ca^  with  plaid  border  and  plume  of  eagle  feathers.  Girl  wears 
white  dress,  with  plaid  ribbons  across  bosom,  hair  in  long  curls  or  plaits  snooded 
with  plaid  ribbons.     Sh'i  comes  forward  as  if  listening,  and  sings.     Music  on  page  65.] 


r^  HEERILY  thy  bugle  sounds 

Vly    When  home  returning  o'er  the  lake ; 

Merrily  my  bosom  bounds 

As  each  clear  swell  bids  echo  wake. 
[Her  lover  advances  as  she  finislics,  and  sings:] 
Joyously  I  wing  the  note 

To  tell  thee  that  thy  hunter's  near; 
Merrily  I  speed  the  boat 

Toward  the  home  by  thee  made  dear. 
[Both  sing  in  chorus:] 
Dearest,  for  thee,  thee  only, 

These  mountain  wilds  are  sweet  to  me ; 
Each  crag  and  valley  lonely 

Is  blest  because  'tis  loved  by  thee. 
Sound,  sound,  sound,  sound, 
The  merry,  merry  mountain  horn 
At  evening's  close  and  morning's  rosy  dawn. 

[Girl  sings:] 
Fearlessly  thy  footsteps  roam 

Where  snows  hang  o'er  the  dizzy  steep, 
Driving  from  his  rocky  home 
The  echo  of  the  hollow  deep. 
[Man  sings:] 
Merrily  the  wild  stag  bounds, 

Until  he  feels  the  hunter's  spear; 
Cheerily  the  glen  resounds 

WitrTehorus  and  the  hunter's  cheer. 
[Both  sing  chorus,  "Dearest,  for  thee,"  etc.] 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48 


65 


na^ji^Er  i«'  r  -)  r  i 


Cheer  -  i  -  ly     thy  bu-  gle  sounds  When  home  returning 
o'er    the    lake  ;  Mer  -  ri  -  ly     my  bo  -  som  bounds,  As 


faSCfia^g£J^Sl 


^g^f^^ggjp^g 


each  clear  swell  bids  ech  -  o  wake.      Joyously     I  wing  the 
=1: 


L-Z 


note,     To      tell    thee    that    thy       hun   -   ter's    near ; 


P 


-^-h— te-3=rB=Prg:= 


E§?iEE!Lte_%g£^=^ 


Mer  -  ri  -  ly       I  speed  my  boat      To  -  ward   the  home  by 


IsiHg 


thee  made  dear.    Dear  -  esc    for  thee,  thee     on   -    ly. 
Chorus 


These  mountain  wiljs  are  sweet  to     me  ; 


Each  crag  and 


val  -  ley     lone    -    ly,       Is  blest  because  'tis  loved  by 


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thee. 


Sound,  sound,    sound,   sound,    the 


mer  -  ry,  mer  -  ry  moun  -  tain       horn, At 


.— pa — =t 


-| — I — r->3R=3=l=^:F^:F:> 


i—r — ^ 

evening's    close      and    morning's   ro  •  sy    dawn 


She.    Why  do  you  put  the  choir  so  high  up  in  the  gallery? 
He.    Because  the  bass  has  such  a  deep  voice  that  if  he  was 
below  nobody  could  hear  him  unless  they  sat  in  the  cellar. 


66  WERNER'S  READINGS 

OUR    SOLDIERS'    SANTIAGO    SONG. 


DAVID   GRAHAM    ADEE. 


[When  destruction  of  Cervera's  fleet  became  known  before  Santiago,  soldiers 
cheered  wildly  and,  with  one  accord,  through  miles  of  trenches,  began  singing  "The 
Star-Spangled  Banner."     Music  on  page  43.] 


[Speaker    stands    listening   to    "Star-Spangled    Banner,"    sung   by    unseen    chorus. 
At   end    of    singing,    speaker    recites    poem.     At    end    of    poem    chorus    only    is    sung.] 


SINGING  "The  Star-Spangled  Banner" 
In  the  very  jaws  of  death! 
Singing  our  glorious  anthem, 

Some  with  their  latest  breath ! 
The  strains  of  that  solemn  music 

Through  the  spirit  will  ever  roll, 
Thrilling  with  martial  ardor 
The  depths  of  each  patriot  soul. 

Hearing  the  hum  of  the  bullets ! 

Eager  to  charge  the  foe ! 
Biding  the  call  to  battle, 

Where  crimson  heart-streams  flow ! 
Thinking  of  home  and  dear  ones, 

Of  mother,  of  child,  of  wife, 
They  sang  "The  Star- Spangled  Banner" 

On  that  field  of  deadly  strife. 

They  sang  with  the  voices  of  heroes, 

In  the  face  of  the  Spanish  guns, 
As  they  leaned  on  their  loaded  rifles, 

With  the  courage  that  never  runs. 
They  sang  to  our  glorious  emblem, 

Upraised  on  that  war-worn  sod, 
As  the  saints  in  the  old  arena 

Sang  a  song  of  praise  to  God. 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  48  67 

TRIUMPH    OF    FAITH. 


WILSON  BARRETT. 


[From    "Sign    of   the    Cross."] 


MERCIA,  a  Christian  maiden  arrested  with  her  companions 
by  order  of  Nero,  has  been  rescued  from  prison  by  Mar- 
cus, prefect  of  Rome,  who  loves  and  seeks  to  win  her.  She  is 
confined  in  his  palace,  within  sight  and  sound  of  her  friends. 
She  loves  him;  but,  warned  by  her  Christian  foster  father,  and 
by  the  instinct  of  her  soul,  repels  the  menace  of  his  passion,  even 
when  his  manner  is  all  gentleness.  Inflamed  by  her  coldness, 
those  nobler  instincts,  stirred  in  response  to  her  purity,  are  over- 
whelmed by  passion,  and  in  ferocity  of  wine  and  lust  he  deter- 
mines to  possess  her. 

Mercia  saw  the  wine-inflamed  face,  the  bloodshot  eyes  of 
Marcus,  and  heard  the  hoarse  accents  in  which  he  addressed  her. 
She  trembled  with  apprehension,  saying  softly,  "Let  me  go 
hence."  Marcus  barred  the  way.  He  breathed  heavily ;  his  eyes 
glared  with  passion ;  his  chest  heaved ;  he  was  trembling  vio- 
lently; his  fingers  clutched  at  his  arms  until  the  nails  tore  the 
flesh  to  bleeding.  The  excitement  of  the  last  two  days,  want  of 
food,  wine,  his  lust,  anger,  wounded  self-esteem,  all  were  at  work 
within  him;  his  brain  clouded  with  mad  desire  to  control  this 
girl  who  had  so  enthralled  him,  so  scorned  him. 

Mercia  shuddered.  Could  this  be  the  same  man  who,  but  a  few 
hours  ago,  was  full  of  gentleness  and  sympathy?  He  was  trans- 
formed; all  trace  of  nobility,  even  manliness,  had  left  his  face. 
Yet,  she  loved  and  pitied  him  with  all  her  heart. 

"Let  me  go !" 

"Go  ?  No  !  you  sorceress  or  witch  !  No,  you  beautiful  statue  ! — ■ 
you  cold,  glittering  star !  You  remain.  Your  icy  chastity  burns 
into  my  heart !     I  never  knew  desire  until  I  knew  you ;    and,  if 


68  WERNER'S  READINGS 

your  touch  were  poison,  I'd  possess  you  !  If  death  lurked  in  your 
kisses,  I'd  feast  upon  them !  Come  to  me !"  He  seized  her  in  his 
arms.     Struggling  with  his  greater  strength,  Mercia  cried — 

"For  shame!    Are  you  a  man  or  a  brute?" 

His  face  burned  with  lust,  close  to  hers;  his  hot  breath  upon 
her  cheek,  his  eyes  blazing  as  he  answered : 

"Both !  All  the  brute  in  the  man  is  roused  by  your  disdain — 
all  the  man  in  the  brute  is  fired  by  your  glorious  beauty." 

Mercia  slipped  from  his  arms ;   he  called  loudly : 

"Slaves,  enter  !  Quick !  Quench  those  lamps  !  Fasten  the 
doors  !     Let  no  one  enter — man  or  woman  !" 

Instantly  his  commands  were  obeyed,  though  Mercia  cried, 
"Mercy !  Do  not  leave  me,  men,  if  you  have  sisters,  mothers, 
wives !"  They  extinguished  the  lamps,  and  the  grinding  of 
bolts  and  locks  in  the  distant  doors  told  her  that  she  was  alone 
— absolutely  alone  with  a  mad,  uncontrolled  being  intent  upon 
her  destruction. 

"There  is  no  escape !  We  are  alone,  and  you  are  mine — body 
and  soul !" 

The  brave  girl's  faith  was  unshaken. 

"No,  you  cannot  defile  my  soul.  That  is  inviolate.  He  wha 
gave  me  that  soul  will  keep  it  pure,  unstained ;  and  unto  Hif 
mercy  and  unto  His  hands  I  commit  it." 

"No,  no ;  into  mine  !  It  is  not  enough  that  you  should  be  mine1 
I  must  have  your  very  soul !  Mercia,  love  me,  and  thou  shall 
be  worshiped  as  never  woman  was  worshiped  yet.  See,  I  grovel 
at  your  feet;"  he  fell  on  the  floor,  clutching  her  robes,  "I  kiss 
the  hem  of  your  garment !  Only  love  me !  I'll  load  you  with 
gold — cover  your  beauty  with  the  rarest  gems — only  love  me! 
I'll  give  thee  wealth,  power,  empire — only  love  me !" 

"Mercy,  mercy !" 

"Have  thou  mercy !  I  love  thee  so !  Have  mercy  upon  that 
love — upon  me  !" 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms  once  more. 

"Art  thou  man  or  devil  ?"  she  moaned. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48 


69 


"Man  or  devil,  thou  shalt  love  me !"  he  hissed  back,  kissing  her 
passionately. 

Her  senses  were  reeling,  her  strength  exhausted.  The  earth 
receding,  the  marble  floor  appeared  to  rock  like  waves  in  a  storm ; ' 
utter  darkness  was  falling;  and  then — was  it  a  miracle  that  hap- 
pened? The  darkened  room  was  illuminated  by  a  soft,  white 
light;  the  hymn  of  the  Christians  rang  through  the  still  air  of  the 
night — 

"Shepherd  of  souls  that  stumble  by  the  way, 
Pilot  of  vessels  storm-tossed  in  the  night — " 

Chant. 


m 


72- 


i 


\ 


A  tide  of  strength  superhuman  surged  through  her  whole 
being.  With  a  swift  movement  she  threw  Marcus  from  her  as 
easily  as  though  the  strong  man  had  been  a  weak  child;  as  she 
did  so,  she  held  her  cross,  the  emblem  of  her  faith,  aloft,  crying 
with  ecstatic  joy: 

"A  sign !  A  sign !  The  Master  hath  spoken !  You  cannot 
harm  me  now !" 

Marcus  staggered  from  her,  trembling,  amazed,  sobered  and 
sane,  all  his  anger,  lust,  passion,  gone.  A  daughter  of  heaven, 
an  angel  of  light,  this  radiant  being  was  a  thing  to  worship,  not  to 
profane.  The  scales  had  fallen  from  his  eyes.  Virtue  was  not 
a  myth,  purity  not  a  delusion,  faith  not  a  pretense.  He  fell  upon 
his  knees  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 


Mother.     Where  did  you  learn  that  new  piece,  Maria? 
Maria.     It  isn't  a  new  piece,  mother;    the  piano  has  been 
tuned. 


70  WERNER'S  READINGS 

BLACKSMITH'S   SONG  (No.  1). 


I.  E.  DIEKENGA. 


B 


Y  the  forge  the  blacksmith  stands, 
With  the  hammer  in  his  hands; 
And  he  sings  in  rhythmic  rhyme, 
Beating  measure  all  the  time : 
[Begin  Anvil  Chorus    music    here,  and    play  as  background 
during  remainder  of  recitation.'] 

"Rise — heart — cheer-ily ; 
Be — not — cast — down — drear-ily  ; 
Steady — ready — mer-rily  ; 
Thy  beating  way  pursue. 
Ever — fight  wrong — 

Strike  blow — be  strong — 
Keep  the  right  in  view, 
Let  no  dishonor 

Thy  virtue  darken 

Nor  do  thou  hearken 
To  evil  tongues. 

"Faith — hope — char-ity 
Be — to — thee — no — rar-ity ; 
Bravely — boldly — ver-ily 

Be  firm,  and  brave,  and  true. 
Forward — onward — 

Upward — Godward — 
All  thy  work  unto; 
Have  thou  no  terror, 
But  be  the  bearer 

Of  truth  'gainst  error, 

To  pierce  it  through." 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48 


71 


On  the  blacksmith's  arm  along 
Stand  the  muscles  great  and  strong, 
And  the  swinging  hammer  rings 
On  the  anvil  as  he  sings. 


ANVIL  CHORUS. 


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WERNER'S  READINGS 


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AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48 


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AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  48  75 

BLACKSMITH'S    SONG  (No.  2). 


G.   LEMOINE. 


CLING  clang,  cling  clang! 
Went  the  blacksmith's  hammer, 
While  his  brazen  voice  outrang 

High  o'er  all  the  clamor. 
In  his  forge  from  break  of  day, 
When  he  pealed  his  roundelay, 
So  fierce  he  seemed,  the  neighbors  round 
Quaked  with  terror  at  the  sound. 
[Anvil  Chorus  music  as  background  during  next  five  lines.] 
Loudly  ring,  my  anvil  true, 
I'll  have  ne'er  a  bride  but  you : 
In  my  black  abode,  thy  beat 
Than  a  love  song  is  more  sweet: 
La,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la. 

Cling  clang,  cling  clang! 

Softly  rang  the  hammer: 
Roger's  heart  instead  went  bang, 

With  a  violent  clamor. 
He  the  pretty  Rose  had  seen, 
Flower  half  blown  of  sweet  fifteen, 
Put  on  gloves,  was  wed  full  soon, 
Changed  was  then  the  blacksmith's  tune: 
[Anvil  Chorus  music  as  background  during  next  five  lines.] 
Soft,  my  anvil,  ring  to-day 
In  the  name  of  love  I  pray, 
Softly,  softly  sound  the  blows, 
Not  to  drown  the  voice  of  Rose. 
La,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la. 

Cling  clang,  cling  clang! 
Rose  was  very  trying; 


76 


WERNER'S   READINGS 


Three  times,  hark!   a  slap  outrang, 

Into  silence  dying. 
Ah,  poor  Rose,  sure  all  is  o'er ! 
Came  the  watch  and  burst  the  door. 
Lo,  the  man  of  noise  and  strife 
On  his  knees  before  his  wife ! 
[Anvil  Chorus  music  as  background  during  remainder 
of  recitation.] 
Rose,  in  love's  dear  name  I  pray, 
Beat  me,  beat  me  all  the  day, 
For  thy  pretty  hand  will  be 
Soft  as  satin  still  to  me. 
La,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la. 


MEIN   SCHWEET   MOOSIK. 


HAMILTON  CLARKE. 


[Reciter  enters,  playing  piccolo;  goes  to  stage  front  and  recites  first  stanza;  puts 
piccolo  down,  picks  up  cornet,  recites  first  four  lines  of  second  stanza;  plays  cornet; 
stops  playing;  finishes  reciting  second  stanza  while  putting  cornet  on  table  and  taking 
trombone;  recites  first  four  lines  of  third  stanza;  plays  trombone;  recites  last  line 
of  third  stanza;  puts  down  trombone,  picks  up  drum,  recites  four  lines  of  fourth 
stanza;  plays  drum  awhile;  recites  last  line  of  fourth  stanza  and  first  two  lines  of 
fifth  stanza;  stops  and  gazes  a  moment  at  audience,  recites  remaining  lines  and  exits 
on  last  line,   waving  drum-stick.] 

[Effectiveness  of  recitation  depends  on  playing  the  various  instruments  and  on  the 
funny  business  introduced.] 


MEIN  friends,  I'm  blaying,  as  you  know, 
Ze  lofely,  lifely  piccolo, 
Mit  trills  und  shakes,  of  songs  or  psalms, 
More  sweet  as  anysing  of  Brahms. 

Ach  so,  ach  so ! 
Mein  lofely,  lifely  piccolo. 
Piccolo. 


D 


AND    RECITATIONS   NO.   48 


77 


Und  I,  mein  friends,  make  moosik  flow, 
From  out  mein  cornet,  soft  or  low, 
Or  shrill  and  loud,  boze  can  he  be, 
Ze  noble  instrument  is  he. 

Ach  so,  ach  so ! 
Mein  cornet  loud,  or  soft  und  low. 
Cornet. 


Mit  all  mein  lungs  I  brafely  blow 
Mein  big  trombone  fortissimo; 
Und  vhen  you'fe  heard  me  play  him,  ach, 
You  vill  not  vish  for  zings  by  Bach. 

Ach  so,  ach  so ! 
Mein  big  trombone  fortissimo. 

Trombone. 

IToderato.  — = 


m 


gliss. 

Und  I  mit  hangings  to  and  fro, 
Mein  drum's  sweet  moosik  I  vill  show, 
It  may  be  loud  or  soft,  mein  friends, 
I  bang  it  till  ze  moosik  ends. 

Ach  so,  ach  so ! 
Mein  drum  is  loudest,  I  vill  show. 


gliss. 


Drum. 


zj&2t5tztt±  f  r  g — '~?~t~d~~*~f~?  i  _^ — I  *  *  ? — 


/    - 


78 


WERNER'S   READINGS 


Ve'll  play  ze  "Wacht  am  Rhein,"  alzough 
You  seem  to  vish  zat  I  should  go. 
Ach !  vat  ?    You  say  zat  ve  must  cease 
Or  you  vill  fetch  us  ze  police  ? 

Ach  so,  ach  so ! 
If  ze  police  kommen  ve  must  go. 


PRACTICING    SONG. 


[Piano   left  side   of  stage,   side   to   audience.] 


R 


I  turn  tiddy-iddy,  ri  turn  turn !     [Little  girl  runs  in  singing.] 


Here  I  must  sit  for  an  hour  and  strum.     [Flings  herself 
on  piano-stool.] 
Practice  is  the  thing  for  a  good  little  girl.     [Plays  scale.] 


It  makes  her  nose  straight  [turns  cutely  round  on  stool;  and, 
glancing  at  audience,  feels  of  nose]  and  it  makes  her  hair 
curl.     [Twists  hair  around  finger,  smiling  rougishly.] 

Ri  turn  tiddy-iddy,  ri  turn  ti !  [Sings  as  she  turns  around  to 
piano  again. 

-0 0-0-0- 

Bang  on  the  low  notes  [strikes  heavily  on  low  notes]  and  twiddle 
on  the  high  ; 


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m 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48 


79 


Whether  it's  a  jig  [plays  jig  music]  or  the  Dead  March  in  "Saul." 
[Plays  sonic  of  the  Dead  March  in  "Saul."] 


I  sometimes  feel  as  if  I  didn't  care  at  all.  [Tosses  head  back  in 
indifferent  manner,  swings  around  on  stool,  looks  at  audi- 
ence in  pert  manner,  and  acts  as  though  listening;  turns 
back  again  quickly,  singing  as  she  turns:] 

Ri  turn  tiddy-iddy  ri  turn  te !  [Strikes  notes  on  piano  not  in  keep- 
ing with  the  time  in  which  she  is  singing.] 


I  don't  mind  the  whole  or  the  half  notes,  you  see.  [As  she  says 
this  she  swings  round  to  audience  again.] 

It's  the  sixteenth  and  the  quarter  that  confuse  my  mother's 
daughter, 

And  a  thirty-second  [strikes  it  on  piano,  then  nods  head]  is  too 
dreadful  to  be  taught  her. 

Ri  turn  tiddy-iddy,  ri  turn  to !     [Singing  as  she  plays  new  scale.] 


m 


I  shall  never,  never  learn  [looks  at  audience  and  then  back  at 
piano,  plays  minor  scale  badly]  the  minor  scale  I  know 
[shaking  head']  ; 


^EgEj^t^: 


dat 


Ti 


m 


80  WERNER'S  READINGS 

It's    gloomier    [plays    badly]    and    awfuller    than    puppy    dogs 

a-howling    [swings    around  as  she    talks  and  tells  it  to 

audience], 
And   what's   the   use   of   practicing   such   melancholy   yowl-ing? 

[Drawls,  as  she  szvings  around  on  stool  again.] 
But  ri  turn  tiddy-iddy,  ri  turn  turn !     [Plays  hard  and  earnestly.] 

[Here  play  four  bars  of  any  piece  already  studied.] 
Still  I  work  away  with  my  drum — drum — drum  [drums  loud  and 

long] — 


As  loud  as  possible. 

For  practicing  is  good  [swings  around  again  and,  pointing  at  her- 
self and  tossing  back  head,  jumps  off  stool]  for  a  good 
little  girl  ; 

It  makes  her  nose  straight  [shakes  head  at  audience  and  feels  of 
nose  from  top  doum]  and  it  makes  her  hair  curl.  [Bows 
deeply  as  she  twists  hair  around  finger,  looks  coquettish 
and  runs  off  stage.] 


WHEN  JOSIAH  PLAYS  THE  FIDDLE. 


JULIA  T.  RIORDAN. 


YOU  may  talk  about  yer  orchestras,  yer  operas,  an'  sich, 
Where  there  ain't  no  tune  to  nuthin'  an'  the  folks  jist  howl 
an'  screech : 
Where  they  make  sich  fuss  an'  racket,  you  can't  heer  your  own 

self  sneeze, 
With  the  tootin'  of  the  instruments  an'  bangin'  of  the  keys ; 
But  with  all  ther  fancy  music,  we  kin  beat  'em  any  day, 
When  Josiah  plays  the  fiddle  an'  I  sing  "Nelly  Gray." 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48  81 

(Violin.)     At  end  of  each  stanza. 


Why,  you  ought  to  see  Josiah  when  he  takes  his  fiddle  down ! 
You'd  fergit  his  face  is  wrinkled  an'  his  fingers  stiff  an'  brown  ; 
You'd  fergit  he's  nigh  to  eighty,  an  his  hair's  white  es  snow, 
Fer  he  plays  jest  lack  he  used  to,  nearly  fifty  years  ago. 
Es  fer  me — well,  I  don't  sing  much,  but  I  sorter  hums  away, 
When  Josiah  plays  the  fiddle  an'  I  sing  "Nelly  Gray." 

It  ain't  none  er  these  here  new  songs,  but  it's  one  that  kinder 

clings, 
With  its  simple  words  an'  music,  round  yer  very  heart,  an'  brings 
Back  the  mem'ry  of  the  old  time  an'  the  old  plantation  life, 
When  the  darkies  used  to  sing  it,  'fore  they  knew  of  hate  or 

strife, 
An'  it  makes  you  feel  so  restful,  though  them  times  are  far  away, 
When  Josiah  plays  the  fiddle  an'  I  sing  "Nelly  Gray." 

Sometimes,  when  we're  both  a-settin'  by  the  kitchen  fire  at  night, 
An'  we  gits  to  seein'  pictures  where  the  coals  are  glowin'  bright ; 
When  I  see  the  wrinkles  deepen  round  Josiah's  mouth  an'  eye, 
An'  I  know  what  he's  a-thinkin',  an'  he  knows  what  makes  me 

sigh; 
Then  he  says :    "Let's  have  some  music — it'll  help  us  to  feel  gay ;" 
So — Josiah  plays  the  fiddle  an'  I  sing  "Nelly  Gray." 

I  remember  when  our  Mary,  with  the  curlin'  golden  hair, 

Wuz  first  laid  beneath  the  flowers  in  the  churchyard  over  there  ; 

When  our  hearts  wuz  almost  breakin',  though  we  knew  it  wuz  a 

sin, 
Grievin'  fer  the  sound  of  footsteps  thet  would  never  come  ag'in; 
When  our  tears  wuz  fastest  fallin',  yet  we'd  wipe  'em  quick  away, 
An' — Josiah'd  play  the  fiddle  an'  I'd  sing  "Nelly  Gray." 


82  WERNER'S  READINGS 

An'  when  Robert — 'he's  our  eldest — when  he  ran  away  to  sea, 

An'  left  not  a  single  word  of  love  to  father  or  to  me; 

When  the  years  passed  on  unheeded,  an'  we  got  no  word  from 

him; 
When  we  were  so  tired  a-watchin',  an'  our  eyes  wuz  gettin'  dim; 
When  our  hearts  wuz  overburdened  till  we  felt  we  couldn't  pray ; 
Then — Josiah'd  play  the  fiddle  an'  I'd  sing  "Nelly  Gray." 

An'  it  alius  helps  us  so  much,  though  you  might  not  think  it 

would ; 
Fer  it  teaches  us  a  patience  thet  no  lesson  ever  could; 
An',  as  one  by  one  friends  leave  us,  yet  we  know  thet  it  is  best, 
An'  the  time  ain't  long  a-comin'  when  we,  too,  shall  go  to  rest. 
So,  when  death's  dark  shadows  gather,  closin'  round  our  life's 

pathway, 
Then— Josiah'll  play  the  fiddle  an'  I'll  sing  "Nelly  Gray." 


MUSICAL   MARTYRDOM. 


SUSIE  M.  BEST. 


[Written  expressly  for  this  book.] 


[Poem  is  to  be  recited  except  "Ee-ah,  Ah-ee,"  which  is  to  be  sung  in  burlesque  fashion, 
in  different  key,  at  end  of  every  stanza.] 


MY  neighbor  vocalizes, 
She  hustles  to  high  C, 
And  there  she  trills  her  challenge, 
"Ee-ah!     Ee-ah,  Ah-ee!" 


■-4—f—  1     -.  ■*-•    P — I a P- — — 


Ee  -  ah  Ee  -  ah  Ah  - 


1 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   43  83 

My  neighbor  vocalizes, 

Could  I  invoke  the  law 
I'd  issue  an  injunction 

Against  "Ah-ee  !    Ee-ah !" 

My  neighbor  vocalizes, 

Her  middle  tones  she  tries, 
And  then  my  mite  of  patience 

Gives  up  the  ghost  and  dies ! 

My  neighbor  vocalizes, 

I  shiver  when  I  hear 
That  well-known  note  initial 

"Ee-ah  !"  strike  on  my  ear  ! 

My  neighbor  vocalizes, 

She  gurgles  in  her  throat, 
Against  my  will  I  listen 

And  follow  every  note. 

My  neighbor  vocalizes, 

I'm  sure  I'll  be  insane 
If  she  doesn't  change  that  awful 

"Ee-ah !"  that  is  my  bane. 

My  neighbor  vocalizes, 

Alas  !  the  country's  free 
And  often  as  she  pleases 

She  sings  "Ee-ah  !    Ah-ee !" 

My  neighbor  vocalizes, 

The  sound  I  cannot  stem, 
It's  good  that  I  am  pious, 

Or  I  might  say — ahem  ! 

My  neighbor  vocalizes, 

How  would  it  do  for  me 
To  punish  her  by  learning 

"Ee-ah  !     Ee-ah  !     Ah-ee !" 


84  WERNER'S  READINGS 

VISIT  OF  THE  CHRIST-CHILD. 


ELIZABETH  HARRISON. 


[Music  to  be  played  before  recitation  is  begun.  When  reciter  reaches  "His  ragged 
clothes  had  changed,"  etc.,  on  page  87,  music  is  played  as  background  during 
remainder  of  recitation.] 


ALONG,  long  time  ago,  on  Christmas  eve,  a  little  child  was 
wandering  through  a  great  city.  Many  people  were  on 
the  street — fathers  and  mothers,  sisters  and  brothers,  uncles  and 
aunts,  and  even  gray-haired  grandfathers  and  grandmothers,  all 
of  whom  were  hurrying  home  with  bundles  of  presents,  but  the 
little  child  wandered  about  listlessly  from  street  to  street.  No  one 
took  any  notice  of  him. except  perhaps  Jack  Frost,  who  bit  his 
bare  toes  and  made  the  ends  of  his  fingers  tingle.  Home  after 
home  he  passed,  looking  with  longing  eyes  through  the  windows 
at  the  glad,  happy  children. 

"Surely,"  said  the  child  to  himself,  "where  there  is  so  much 
gladness  and  happiness  some  of  it  may  be  for  me."  So  with 
timid  steps  he  approached  a  handsome  house.  Through  the  win- 
dows he  could  see  a  tall  and  stately  Christmas-tree.  Many 
presents  hung  upon  it.  He  rapped  at  the  door.  It  was  opened 
by  a  man-servant  who  looked  at  the  little  child  for  a  moment, 
then  sadly  shook  his  head  and  said,  "Go  down  off  the  steps. 
There  is  no  room  here  for  such  as  you." 

The  street  grew  colder  and  darker.  The  child  went  sadly  for- 
ward, saying  to  himself,  "Is  there  no  one  in  all  this  great  city 
who  will  share  Christmas  with  me?"  Farther  and  farther  down 
the  street  he  wandered.  There  seemed  to  be  children  inside  of 
nearly  all  the  houses.  They  were  dancing  and  frolicking.  Christ- 
mas-trees could  be  seen  in  nearly  every  window.  At  last,  creep- 
ing up  to  a  window-pane  he  tapped  upon  it.  A  little  girl  came  to 
the  window  and  looked  out.  She  saw  the  child,  but  she  only 
frowned  and  said,  "Go  away  and  come  some  other  time.  We  are 
too  busy  to  take  care  of  you  now." 

Back  into  the  dark,  cold  street  he  turned  again.    The  wind  was 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO. 


85 


whirling  past  him  and  seemed  to  say,  "Hurry  on,  hurry  on,  we 
have  no  time  to  stop.  'Tis  Christmas  Eve  and  everybody  is  in  a 
hurry  to-night." 

Slowly. 

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The  hours  passed ;  colder  blew  the  wind  and  darker  seemed  the 
street.  Farther  and  farther  the  little  one  wandered.  There  was 
scarcely  any  one  left  upon  the  street  by  this  time.  Suddenly, 
ahead  of  him,  appeared  a  bright,  single  ray  of  light.     It  shone 


86  WERNER'S  READINGS 

through  the  darkness  into  the  child's  eyes.  He  looked  up  smil- 
ingly and  said,  "I  will  go  where  the  light  beckons;  perhaps  they 
will  share  their  Christmas  with  me." 

He  went  straight  to  the  window.  It  was  a  poor  little  low 
house,  but  the  child  cared  not.  The  light  seemed  to  call  him  in. 
There  was  neither  curtain  nor  shade  to  the  small  window.  The 
room  was  plainly  furnished,  but  clean.  Near  the  fireplace  sat 
a  lovely-faced  mother  with  a  two-year-old  on  her  knee  and  an 
older  child  beside  her.  The  two  children  were  looking  into  their 
mother's  face  listening  to  a  Christmas  story. 

The  little  wanderer  crept  closer  and  closer  to>  the  window.  So 
sweet  was  the  mother's  face,  so  loving  seemed  the  little  children, 
that  he  took  courage  and  tapped  gently  on  the  door. 

The  mother  stopped  talking,  the  little  children  looked  up. 

"What  was  that,  mother?"  asked  the  little  girl  at  her  side. 

"I  think  some  one  is  tapping  on  the  door,"  replied  the  mother. 
"Run  and  open  it,  dear." 

"Oh,  mother,  I  think  it  was  the  bough  of  the  tree  tapping 
against  the  window-pane,"  said  the  little  girl.  "Do  please  go  on 
with  our  story." 

Again  the  little  wanderer  tapped. 

"My  child !  my  child !"  exclaimed  the  mother,  rising,  "that 
certainly  was  a  rap  on  the  door;  open  it.  No  one  must  be  left 
out  in  the  cold  on  our  beautiful  Christmas  Eve." 

The  child  ran  and  threw  the  door  wide  open.  The  mother  saw 
the  ragged  stranger,  cold  and  shivering,  with  bare  head  and 
almost  bare  feet.  She  held  out  both  hands  and  drew  him  into  the 
warm,  bright  room.  "You  poor,  dear  child !"  and,  putting  her 
arms  around  him,  drew  him  to  her  breast. 

"He  is  very  cold.    We  must  warm  him." 

"And,"  added  the  little  girl,  "we  must  love  him  and  give  him 
some  of  our  Christmas  too." 

"Yes,"  said  the  mother;    "but  first  let  us  warm  him." 

The  mother  sat  beside  the  fire  with  the  child  on  her  lap.  She 
smoothed  his  tangled  curls,  and  kissed  his  face. 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  48  87 

By  and  by  the  little  girl  said  softly  to  her  mother,  "May  we  not 
light  the  Christmas-tree  and  let  him  see  how  beautiful  it  looks?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  mother. 

They  were  soon  so  busy  that  they  did  not  notice  the  room  had 
filled  with  a  strange  and  brilliant  light.  They  turned  and  looked 
at  the  spot  where  the  little  wanderer  sat.  His  ragged  clothes 
had  changed  to  garments  white  and  beautiful;  his  tangled  curls 
seemed  like  a  halo  of  golden  light;  but  most  glorious  of  all  was 
his  face,  which  shone  with  a  light  so  dazzling  that  they  could 
scarcely  look  upon  it. 

In  silent  wonder  they  gazed  at  the  child.  Their  little  room 
seemed  to  grow  larger,  and  larger,  and  larger,  until  it  was  as  wide 
as  the  whole  world ;  the  roof  of  their  low  house  seemed  to  expand 
and  rise  until  it  reached  to  the  sky. 

With  a  sweet  and  gentle  smile  the  wonderful  child  looked  upon 
them  for  a  moment  and  then  slowly  rose  and  floated  through  the 
air,  above  the  treetops,  beyond  the  church-spire,  higher  even  than 
the  clouds  themselves,  until  he  appeared  to  them  to  be  a  shining 
star  in  the  sky  above.    At  last  he  disappeared  from  sight. 

The  astonished  children  turned  in  awe  to  their  mother,  and 
whispered,  "Oh,  mother,  it  was  the  Christ-child,  was  it  not?" 

And  the  mother  answered  in  a  low  tone,  "Yes." 


WHEN    THE    CUCKOO    SINGS. 


ALFRED  AUSTIN. 


[Abridged.] 


[When  reciter  reaches  "cuckoo"  in  second  line  of  first  stanza,  he  gives  cuckoo  calls 
(first  line  of  music).  For  cuckoo  calls  in  fourth  line  of  first  stanza,  use  first  and 
second  lines  of  music.  Repeat  foregoing  in  every  stanza.  After  last  stanza  has  been 
recited,  give  cuckoo  calls  in  music  below  last  stanza.] 


HARK !    Spring  is  coming.    Her  herald  sings, 
Cuckoo ! 
The  air  resounds  and  the  woodland  rings, 
Cuckoo !    Cuckoo ! 


88  WERNER'S  READINGS 

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Cuck  -  oo, 


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Cuck  -  oo,  cuck  -  oo,         cuck  -  oo. 

Leave  the  milking-pail  and  the  mantling  cream, 
And  down  by  the  meadow,  and  up  by  the  stream, 
Where  movement  is  music  and  life  a  dream, 
In  the  month  when  sings  the  cuckoo. 

Away  with  old  Winter's  frowns  and  fears, 

Cuckoo !    Cuckoo ! 
Now  May  with  a  smile  dries  April's  tears, 

Cuckoo ! 
When  the  bees  are  humming  in  bloom  and  bud, 
And  the  kine  sit  chewing  the  moist  green  cud, 
Shall  the  snow  not  melt  in  a  maiden's  blood, 
In  the  month  when  sings  the  cuckoo? 

But  in  warm  midsummer  we  hear  no  more, 

Cuckoo ! 
And  August  brings  not,  with  all  its  store, 

Cuckoo ! 
When  Autumn  shivers  on  Winter's  brink, 
And  the  wet  wind  wails  through  crevice  and  chink, 
We  gaze  at  the  logs,  and  sadly  think 

Of  the  month  when  called  the  cuckoo. 

But  the  cuckoo  comes  back  and  shouts  once  more, 

Cuckoo ! 
And  the  world  is  as  young  as  it  was  before ; 

Cuckoo !    Cuckoo ! 
It  grows  not  older  for  mortal  tears, 
For  the  falsehood  of  men  or  for  women's  fears ; 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48  89 

'Tis  as  young  as  it  was  in  the  bygone  years, 
When  first  was  heard  the  cuckoo. 

I  will  love  you  then  as  I  love  you  now, 

Cuckoo ! 
What  cares  the  Spring  for  a  broken  vow? 

Cuckoo !    Cuckoo ! 
The  broods_of  last  year  are  pairing,  this ; 
And  there  never  will  lack,  while  love  is  bliss, 
Fresh  ears  to  cozen,  fresh  lips  to  kiss, 

In  the  month  when  sings  the  cuckoo. 


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Cuck    -    oo,  cuck    -    oo,         coo,  cuck  -  oo. 


M'    LI'L'    BLACK    BABY. 


Words  of  Song  and  Music  by  JOSEPHINE  MERWIN  COOK. 


Monologue  by  Stanley  Schell. 


{Written  expressly  for  this  book.] 


[Recited  by  Kitty  Cheatham.] 


Character  Speaking:    Mrs.  Taylor. 

Supposed  to  be  Present:    Baby  Jinny,  and  Mrs.  Johnsing,  a 
neighbor. 

Scene  :    At  rise  of  curtain,  Mrs.  Taylor  is  putting  child  down. 
She  seems  to  be  smoothing  wrinkles  of  its  dress  and  stands 


90  WERNER'S  READINGS 

and  watches  child  moving  off.  Scene  is  out-of-doors  ;  chairs 
and  bench  in  background.  Near  a  chair  is  table  with  work- 
basket,  containing  stockings.  Mrs.  Taylor,  after  watching 
child  awhile,  goes  to  and  sits  on  chair  near  table.  She  takes 
up  work  and  begins  to  darn.    Enter  Mrs.  Johnsing. 

YO'  Lily  done  got  mar'yd  las'  night?  Ran  'way  wid  Brer 
Thompson?  Fo'  de  Lawd's  sakes,  yo'  sholy  never  did 
'spicion  sich  a  maryage,  I  reckon.  An'  she  de  belle  o'  de  ball  las' 
week,  wid  de  pick  o'  de  men.  I  reckon  one  cain't  never  count 
dair  chickens  now-a-days;   day  hatches  too  soon,  I  reckon. 

Her  pa  is  hot  foot  after  dem?  He  sho'  nevah  will  catch  dat  ar 
Brer  Thompson,  fer  he  was  alwa's  a  slick  niggah.  An'  to  think 
yo'  Lily  should  hev  picked  out  sech  a  feller.  I  calls  him  a  low- 
down  niggah.  Heah,  do  sit  down,  Mrs.  Johnsing.  Yo'  sho'  look 
done  ober. 

Gracious  goodness,  where's  my  Jinny?  Look,  look  dar.  Wha' 
she  doin'  ?  [Rises  hastily  from  chair  and  looks  tozvard  front  of 
stage] .  Stop  dat,  stop  dat !  yo'  HT  black  niggah !  Yo'  mammy 
sho'  will  lick  yo',  ef  yo'  doan'.  No,  I  reckon  I  mus'  not  be  too 
haish  wid  m'  Jinny — she  sho'  is  de  cunningest  chile  ebber  bo'n  in 
dis  yere  town. 

[Rushes  forward  a  few  steps.'] 

Stop  dat  at  once,  Jinny !  Bress  her  heart,  she  wants  der  bird. 
No,  no,  honey  chile,  yo'  cain't  hab  him.  Play  now ;  soon  yo'  will 
hab  to  go  to  bed. 

[Goes  to  chair  and  sits  again.     Takes  up  sezving.] 

Han'som',  ain'  she — like  her  dad  ?  M'  f ambly  nevah  hed  much 
looks.  I  s'pose  yo'  all  will  hev  to  forgibe  Lily?  Yas,  yo'  will, 
sho'nuf.  •  I  reckon  yo'  done  de  same  ting  yo'sef  wen  yo'  was  a 
gal.  Ha,  ha !  I  knowed  it.  It's  in  de  blood,  an'  is  like  a  boil — 
boun'  to  com'  to  de  su'face. 

Bringin'  up  wuz  diff'rent?  Bringin'  up  doan  change  one.  It's 
what  dey  call  heditary,  comes  from  one  pusson  in  de  fambly  to 
anodder —  [Gets  up  suddenly  and  leaves  chair  as  if  to  go  after 
child.']  Hi,  dah !  Hi,  dah !  Yo'  liT  black  rascal,  wha'  yo'  up 
to  now  ?    See  dat  gander  right  after  m'  baby  ? 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48  91 

[Waves  arms  excitedly  and  cries  out:] 

Sho !  sho  !    Yo'  ole  gander — Sho  ! 

[Wild  gesticulations,  starts  forward.] 

Fo'  de  Lawd's  sakes,  dat  niggah  am  down !  Doan'  yo'  cry,  doan' 
yo'  cry,  honey,  mammy  lubs  yo'. 

[Acts  as  though  lifting  child.] 

Upsy — spry,  now,  pic'aninny !  Gracious  goodness,  what  a 
sight.    Yo'  sho'  am  messy — dar ! 

[Puts  child  down.] 

Be  car'ful !  Gracious,  doan'  yo'  see  dat  ar  mud?  Yo'  sho'  will 
mak'  m'  dander  riz  ef  yo'  gits  in  any  mo'  mischief — yo'  sho'  will. 

[Goes  back  to  seat  and  sews  again.] 
Hev  yo'  seen  Sis'  Mason  lately?     No?     She's  been  up  to  New 
York  larnin'  fancy  cookin'.     I  reckon  her  folks  ain'  sat'fied  wid 
black  cookin',  an'  she's  been  called  de  bes'  cook  in  de  Souf. 

Yo'  folks  easy  wurkin'  fur?  Yo'  doan'  say,  an'  I  wuz  tinkin' 
o'  tryin'  som'  o'  dair  washin'.  I  reckon  de  day  will  be  col'  wen 
I  do  now.     [Looks  at  child  a  moment  and  smiles  as  if  pleased.] 

Yo'  nevah  saw  no  chile  so  good  as  mine?  Yo'  sho'  is  kind  to 
Lay  dat,  Mrs.  Johnsing. 

[Jumps  from  chair,  flings  sewing  on  floor,  stamps  foot.] 

Stop  dat !  Stop  dat !  dis  instep  !  Jes'  see  dat  chile — did  yo' 
^bber  see  de  beat  o'  it  ?  Sprawlin'  flat  in  de  puddle !  Com'  heah 
at  once,  yo'  niggah!  Now,  jes'  see  yo'sef,  drippin'  wid  dat  mud 
— yo'  sho'  is  de  wurstest  chile  I  ebber  hez  seen.  Yo'  keeps  yo' 
mammy  on  de  run  haf  de  time,  an'  makes  me  keep  de  tub  full  o' 
washin'.  Mrs.  Johnsing,  yo'  sho'  is  lucky  to  hab  no  more  childers 
to  watch.  Dis  liT  niggah  pays  no  detention  wen  I  speaks,  or 
eben  wen  I  hollers.  Stop  dat !  Stop  dat !  Now,  see  yo'  han's, 
chile.     Sho's  yo's  bo'n  I'se  goin'  to  lick  yo'  now ! 

[Makes  grab  at  child  and  seems  to  have  it  by  dress.] 

Stop  dat  bawlin' !  Le'mme  tek  off'n  dat  dirty  dress.  [Takes 
off  dress.]  Now,  let  mammy  hole  you.  Snuggl'  close  to  mammy's 
breas'.  Mammy's  goin'  to  sing  her  liT  pic'aninny  to  sleep.  Good- 
bye, Mrs.  Johnsing.    Come  soon,  an'  tell  me  'bout  Lily. 


92 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


[Looks  down  at  child  supposed  to  be  snuggled  close  to  breast. 
Smiles,  seems  to  draw  child  closer,  and  sings:] 

[Words  and  music  of  song  copyrighted,   1911,  by  Josephine  Merwin  Cook.] 


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Lay      yo'  down,     m'     liT  black    ba  -  by,     May      de       an  -  gels 


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juard    dy     bed,         Watch-in'  'round  whiles  you'se   a  -    sleep  -  in, 

Chorus. 


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How  m'  li'l'      lam'  is  fed. 


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Go  to  sleep,  my  li'l'  pic'-a-nin-ny, 

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Cuddle  right  down  in  yo'  mam-my's  arms;  No-bod  -  y's  gwinc  to 


—  J    J  '  « 


bodder    li'l'     baby  Jinny;  Angels  boun' to  keep  yo' f'om  all  ha'm. 

Lay  yo'  dozvn,  m'  li'l'  black  baby, 

May  de  angels  guard  dy  bed; 
\Watchin'  'roun   whiles  you'se  a-sleepin' , 

How  m'  li'l'  lam!  is  fed. 

Chorus. 

Go  to  sleep,  m'  li'l'  pic'aninny, 

Cuddle  right  down  in  yo'  mammy's  arms; 
Nobody's  gwine  to  boddcr  li'l'  baby-Jinny; 

Angels  boun'  to  keep  yo'  f'om  all  ha'm. 

*        Don'  pop  yo'  eyes  so  big,  m'  honey, 
Dat  ain'  nothin'  but  der  win' 
Rattlin'  'roun'  der  co'nahs  o'  de  cabin, — 
Go  'way  f'om  heah,  yo'  cain't  come  in. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48  93 

Yd  needn    be  af cared,  m1  honey, 
Lay  yd  kinky  liaid  on  mammy's  breas', 

Dar  airi  nothiri  a-gwine  to  hurt  yd ', 
'Cause  soon  I'll  put  yo'  in  t'  bed  to  res'. 


SONG  OF  THE  PIGGIES. 


[This    stanza    is    recited.] 

FIVE  little  pigs  lived  in  a  sty, 
As  tidy  as  pigs  might; 
Although  they  were  more  happy  loose 

To  get  an  appe — tite ; 
There  were  Mister  Pig  and  Mistress  Pig, 

Their  daughter,  and  her  beau, 
And  a  tiny  runt  who  had  a  lump 
Upon  his  po — ta — toe. 

[This    stanza    is    sung   as    chorus,    to    music    on   page    50.] 

This  little  pig  to  market  went, 

And  this  one  stayed  at  home; 
This  little  pig  had  nice  roast  beef, 

This  little  runt  had  none, 
This  little  runt  was  sent  to  school, 

Where  he  zvas  taught  to  speak, 
But  all  that  he  could  learn  to  say 

Was  "Week,  week,  week." 

[This    stanza    is    recited.] 

The  daughter,  though,  she  long  had 

Had  her  eye  upon  a  sty, 
Delayed  her  wedding,  for  she  had 

A  sty  upon  her  eye. 
But  when  'twas  well  to  cut  a  swell, 

They  got  all  sorts  of  things ; 
They'd  rings  in  all  their  noses 

And  their  tails  were  all  in  rings. 

[Repeat   chorus.] 


94  WERNER'S  READINGS 

MEETING    AT    THE    BASINS. 


SARAH   P.   McLEAN   GREENE. 


IT  is  Sunday  afternoon  at  the  Basins ;  the  fog-horn  serves  as 
bell;    the  battered  schoolhouse  as  church. 

"We  should  like  to  open  our  meetin'  with  singin',''  said  Super- 
intendent Skates ;    "will  one  of  the  Pointers  lead  us  in  singin'  ?" 

The  Pointers  were  the  aristocrats  of  this  region.  They  were 
silent. 

"I  see  that  a  few  of  the  Crooked  Rivers  have  drove  down  to- 
day, too.    Will  one  of  the  Crooked  Rivers  lead  us  in  singin'  ?" 

Lower  down  in  the  scale  were  they  of  Crooked  River,  but  they 
were  silent. 

"Then  will  one  of  the  Capers  lead  us  in  singin'?"  very  meekly 
and  patiently  persisted  Elder  Skates. 

Of  low  degree  were  they  of  the  Cape,  but  they  were  silent. 

"I  know  that  one  of  the  Basins  will  lead  us  in  singin' !" 

But  the  Basins,  though  so  low,  were  modest. 

"Can't  one  of  the  Basins  start  'He  will  carry  you  through'? 
Where  is  Vesty  ?" 

"She's  a-helpin'  Elvine  with  her  baby,"  answered  a  woman ; 
"she  said  she'd  come  along  for  social  meetin',  after  you'd  had 
Sunday-school,  ef  she  could." 

"How  is  Elvine's  baby?"  asked  another  woman. 

"Wal',  he's  poored  away  dreadful,  but  Aunt  Lowize  says  he's 
turned  to  git  along  all  right  now." 

"Sure  enough !  Wal',  I've  raised  six,  and  narry  sick  a  day. 
I  tell  you  there  ain't  no  doctor's  ructions  like  nine-tenths  milk  to 
two-tenths  molasses,  and  sot  'em  on  the  ground,  and  let  'em  root." 

Voices  hitherto  silent  now  began  to  arise. 

"Is  there  any  more  rusticators  come  to  board  this  summer?" 

"There's  only  four,"  replied  a  male  voice  sadly.  "These  here 
liquor  laws  't  Washin'ton's  put  onto  nor'eastern  Maine  are 
a-killin'  on  us  for  a  fash'nable  summer-resort.  When  folks  finds 
out  't  they've  got  to  go  to  a  doctor  and  swear  't  there's  somethin' 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48  95 

the  matter  with  their  insicles,  in  order  to  git  a  little  tod  o'  whiskey 
aboard,  they  turns  and  p'ints  her  direc'  for  Bar  Harbor  and  Sara- 
togy  Springs  ;  an'  they  not  only  p'ints  her,  they  h'ists  double-reef 
sails  and  sends  her  clippin' !" 

"Lunette's  got  two." 

"What  do  they  pay?" 

"Five  dollars  a  week." 

"Pshaw !  what  ructions !  Three  dollars  a  week  had  ought  to 
pay  the  board  of  the  fanciest  human  creetur  't  God  ever  created 
yit.  But  some  folks  wants  the  'arth,  and'll  take  it,  too,  if  they 
can  git  it." 

"Wal',  I  don'  know;  they're  kind  o'  meachy,  and  alias  souzlin' 
theirselves  in  hot  water;  it  don't  cost  nothin'.  but  it  gives  yer 
house  a  ridick'lous  name.  Then  they  told  Lunette  they  wanted 
their  lobsters  br'iled  alive.  'Thar,'  says  she,  T  sot  my  foot  down. 
I  told  'em  I  wa'n't  goin'  to  have  no  half-cooked  lobsters  hoppin' 
around  in  torments  over  my  house.  I  calk'late  to  put  my  lobsters 
in  the  pot,  and  put  the  cover  on  and  know  where  they  be,' 
says  she." 

"I  took  a  rusticator  once  't  was  dietin'  for  dyspepsy — that's 
a  state  o'  the  stomick,  ye  know,  kind  o'  between  hay  and  grass 
— and  if  I  didn't  get  tired  o'  makin'  toast  and  droppin'  eggs  !" 

"I  never  could  see  no  fun  in  bein'  a  rusticator  anyway,  down 
there  by  the  sea-wall  on  a  hot  day,  settin'  up  agin'  a  spruce  tree 
admirin'  the  lan-scape,  with  ants  an'  pitch  ekally  a-meanderin' 
over  ye." 

"Lunette's  man-boarder  there,  the  husban',  he's  editor  of  a 
noos-sheet,  and  gits  a  thousand  dollars  a  year — 'tain't  believable, 
but  it's  what  they  say — an'  he  thinks  he  knows  it  all.  He  got 
Fluke  to  take  him  out  in  his  boat ;  he  began  to  direc'  Fluke  how 
to  do  this,  an'  how  to  do  that,  an'  squallin'  an'  flvin'  at  him. 
Fluke  sailed  back  with  him  an'  sot  him  ashore.  'When  I  take  a 
hen  in  a  boat,  I'll  take  a  hen,'  says  he." 

Meanwhile  Brother  Skates  had  been  standing  listening,  inter- 
ested, but  now  recovered  himself,  blushing. 


96 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


"Can't  one  of  the  Basins  start  'He  will  carry  you  through  ?'  " 

"I'd  like  to,"  said  one  sister.  "I've  got  all  the  dispersition  in 
the  world,  Brother  Skates,  but  I  don't  know  the  tune." 

"It's  better  to  start  her  with  only  jest  a  good  dispersition  an' 
no  tune  to  speak  of,"  said  Brother  Skates  with  gentle  reproof, 
"than  not  to  start  her  at  all." 

Thus  encouraged,  the  song  burst  forth. 


[May  be  sung  by  reciter,   or  as  solo   or   chorus,   visible   or  invisible.] 

HE  WILL  CARRY  YOU  THROUGH. 


:«= 


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1.  Yield    not     to 

2.  Shun      e  -  vil 

3.  To        him    that    o'er-  com  -  eth 


temp-ta  -    tion,    For  yield- ing      is 
com  -  pan  -  ions,     Bad    lan-guage  dis 
God    giv  -  eth        a 


sin, 

dain, 

crown, 


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Each  vie  -  t'i'y  will  help  you  Some  oth  -  er 
God's  name  hold  in  rev  - 'rence,  Nor  take  it 
Thro'  faith     we   shall    con  -  quer,   Though  oft  -  en 


cast 


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vain; 
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fe=i=z: 


Fight  man  -  ful 
Be  thought-ful 
He         who      is 


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ly  on  -  ward.  Dark  pass-ions  sub  -  due, 
and  earn  -  est,  Kind-heart  -  ed  and  true, 
our      Sav  -  iour,    Our  strength  will  re  -    new, 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48 


97 


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Look  ev  -  er  to  Je  -  sus,  He'll  car  -  ry  you  through. 
Look  ev  -  er  to  Je  -  sus,  He'll  car  -  ry  you  through. 
Look      ev  -  er       to       Je    -   sus,      He'll       car  -  ry    you      through. 


p33 


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Elder  Skates  then  asked  questions  from  a  lesson-paper  which 
he  held  in  his  hand. 

"Is  sin  the  cause  of  sorrow?"    No  reply. 

At  this  point,  one  of  a  row  of  small  boys  on  the  back  seat  took 
an  alder-leaf  from  his  pocket  and,  lifting  it  to  his  mouth,  popped 
it,  with  an  explosion  so  loud  that  it  startled  even  himself. 

His  guardian  aunt,  who  sat  directly  in  front  of  him,  though 
deaf,  heard  some  echo  of  this  note ;  and  seeing  the  sudden  glances 


98  WERNERS   READINGS 

directed  their  way,  she  turned,  and,  observing  the  look  of  frozen 
horror  upon  his  features,  said  severely,  "You  stop  that  sithing" 
[sighing] . 

Delighted  at  this  unexpected  escape,  the  boy  embraced  his  fel- 
lows with  such  ecstasy  that  he  fell  off  from  his  seat.  - 

His  aunt,  turning  again,  restored  him  to  his  place  with  deter- 
mination. 

"You  set  your  spanker-beam  down  there  now,  and  keep  still  F' 

Elder  Skates  slid  on  to  the  next  question : 

"How  can  we  escape  trouble?" 

"Good  Lord,  Skates  !"  said  Captain  Pharo,  and  put  his  hand 
in  his  pocket  for  his  pipe,  but  bethought  himself,  and  withdrew 
it,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

Elder  Skates  had  looked  at  him  with  hope,  but  now  again 
mechanically  reiterated : 

"How — can — we — escape — trouble?" 

"We  can't !  we  can't  no  way  in  this  world !"  said  Captain 
Pharo.  "Where  did  you  scrape  up  them  questions,  Skates? 
Escape  trouble?  Be  you  a  married  man,  Skates?  I'd  always 
reckoned  ye  was  !  Poo  !  poo !  Hohum  !  Wal' — wal' — never 
mind — ." 

He  bethought  himself  again  of  his  surroundings  and  was  silent. 

Elder  Skates,  alarmed  and  staggered,  looked  for  something 
vaguely  impersonal. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  'Alphy  and  Omegy?'  "  he  said — and 
waited,  weary  but  safe. 

But  a  lank  and  tall  girl  of  some  fifteen  summers,  arose :  "It's 
the  great  and  only  Pot-entate,"  she  said. 

Elder  Skates  turned  with  dazed  approval  at  the  girl. 

"Very  good.  Very  good,  indeed,"  said  he.  "How  true  that  is ! 
Let  us  try  and  act  upon  it  during  the  week,  according  to  our 
lights." 

Vesty  came  in  just  as  Elder  Cossey  began  his  prayer. 

"Hohum !"  he  said,  with  wholly  devout  intentions,  "we  thank 
Thee   that   another  week  has  been   wheeled   alone:  through  the 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48  99 

sand,  about  a  foot  deep  between  here  an'  the  woods,  an'  over 
them  rotten  spiles  on  the  way  to  the  Point,  an'  them  four  or  five 
jaggedest  boulders  at  the  fork  o'  the  woods — I  wish  there  needn't 
be  quite  so  much  zigzaggin'  an'  shufflin5  in  their  seats  by  them 
't  have  come  in  barefoot  afore  the  Throne  o'  Grace,"  said  the 
Elder,  suddenly  opening  his  eyes,  and  indicating  the  row  of  chil- 
dren with  distinct  disfavor.  "Yes,  we've  been  a-straddlin'  along 
through  troublements  an'  trialments  an'  afflickaments,  hangin' 
out  our  phiols  down  by  the  cold  streams  o'  Babylon,  an'  not 
gittin'  nothin'  in  'em,  hohum !"  And  Elder  Cossey  finally  merged 
into  a  recital  of  his  own  weakness  and  vileness  as  a  miserable 
sinner. 

And  here  a  brother,  who  had  been  noticing  the  winks  cast 
broadly  about,  and  thinking  that  Elder  Cossey  was  not  getting 
treated  fair,  got  up  and  declared  with  emotion,  that  he'd  "heered 
some  say  how  folks  was  all'as  talkin'  about  their  sins  for  effex, 
an'  didn't  mean  nothin'  by  it,  but  I  can  say  this  much,  thar  ain't 
no  talkin'  for  effex  about  Brother  Cossey ;  he  has  been,  an'  is, 
every  bit  jest  as  honest  mean  as  what  he's  been  a-tellin'  on !" 

Elder  Skates  arose,  trembling.  "Vesty,"  said  he,  with  un- 
natural quickness  of  tone,  "will  you  start  'Rifted  Rock?' ': 

Vesty  was  suffocating  with  a  wild  desire  to  laugh.  She  gave  one 
agonized  look  at  Brother  Skates,  then  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  win- 
dow, and  her  voice  flowed  out : 

"Softly  through  the  storm  of  life, 
Clear  above  the  whirlwind's  cry, 
O'er  the  waves  of  sorrow,  steals 
The  voice  of  Jesus,  'It  is  If  " 


100 


WERNER'S   READINGS 


The  music  in  her  throat  had  trembled  at  first,  but  now  all  that 
was  over;    her  uplifted  face  was  holy,  grave: 
"In  the  Rifted  Rock  I'm  resting." 


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Even  so,  I  thought,  as  I  listened,  it  maybe  will  sound  to  us 
some  voice  from  the  other  shore,  when  we  put  out  on  the  dark 
river  where  all  the  peculiarities  of  life  are  forgotten  and  the 
joy  of  service  well  done  comes  to  the  good  and  faithful. 


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THE    NOTE   WITHIN. 


JOHN  KENDRICK  BANGS. 


I    HAVE  a  song  within  my  heart 
That  I  shall  never  sing. 
I  know  'tis  there,  for  I  can  feel 

Its  joyous  fluttering. 
Just  how  it  goes  I  do  not  know; 

And  what  it  is  about, 
Though  I  have  tried  and  tried  again, 

I  cannot  quite  make  out. 
But  this  I  know :    when  days  are  dark, 

And  sullen  is  the  air, 
It  does  not  vex  my  soul  at  all, 

Because  that  song  is  there. 


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WHISTLING   BOY. 


NIXON  WATERMAN. 


[Tune  after  every  stanza  is  to  be  whistled  after  stanza  has  been  recited.     Other  tunes 
may   be    whistled,    if    desired.] 


WHEN  the  curtains  of  night,  'tween  the  dark  and  the 
light, 
Drop  down  at  the  set  of  the  sun, 
And  the  toilers  who  roam  to  the  loved  ones  come  home, 
As  they  pass  by  my  window,  is  one 


102 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


Whose  coming  I  mark,  for  the  song  of  the  lark 

As  it  joyously  soars  in  the  sky, 
Is  no  dearer  to  me  than  the  notes,  glad  and  free, 

Of  the  boy  who  goes  whistling  by. 


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If  a  sense  of  unrest  settles  over  my  breast, 

And  my  spirit  is  clouded  with  care, 
It  all  flies  away  if  he  happens  to  stray 

Past  my  window  a-whistling  an  air. 
And  I  never  shall  know  how  much  gladness  I  owe 

To  this  joy  of  the  ear  and  the  eye, 
But  I'm  sure  I'm  in  debt  for  much  pleasure  I  get 

To. the  boy  who  goes  whistling  by. 


And  this  music  of  his,  how  much  better  it  is 
Than  to  burden  his  life  with  a  frown, 

For  the  toiler  who  sings  to  his  purposes  brings 
A  hope  his  endeavor  to  crown. 

And  whenever  I  hear  his  glad  notes,  full  and  clear, 
I  say  to  myself,  I  will  try 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48 


103 


To  make  all  of  life  with  a  joy  to  be  rife, 
Like  the  boy  who  goes  whistling  by. 


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MUSICAL  FROGS. 


JOHN   STUART   BLACKIE. 


[For    frog-croaks,    use    clarinet    mouthpiece    with    reed    loosened.      Little    practice    in 
tonguing   will   enable    one    to   produce   effects   desired.] 


BREKEKEKEX !   coax  !  coax  !   O  happy,  happy  frogs  ! 
How  sweet  ye  sing !    Oh,  would  that  I 
Upon  the  bubbling  pool  might  lie, 

And  sun  myself  to-day 
With  you  !    No  curtained  bride,  I  ween, 
Nor  pillowed  babe,  nor  cushioned  queen, 
Nor  tiny  fay  on  emerald  green, 

Nor  silken  lady  gay, 
Lies  on  a  softer  couch.     O  Heaven ! 
How  many  a  lofty  mortal,  riven 

By  keen-fanged  inflammation, 
Might  change  his  lot  with  yours,  to  float 


104  WERNER'S  READINGS 

On  sunny  pond,  with  bright  green  coat, 
And  sing  with  gently  throbbing  throat 
Amid  the  croaking  nation,. 
Brekekekex !    coax  !    coax  !     O  happy,  happy  frogs ! 

Brekekekex !    coax  !    coax  !     O  happy,  happy  frogs ! 
Happy  the  bard  who  weaves  his  rhyme 
Recumbent  on  the  purple  thyme 

In  the  fragrant  month  of  June; 
Happy  the  sage  whose  lofty  mood 
Doth  with  far-searching  ken  intrude 
Into  the  vast  infinitude 

Of  things  beyond  the  moon; 
But  happier  not  the  wisest  man 
Whose  daring  thought  leads  on  the  van 

Of  star-eyed  speculation, 
Than  thou,  quick-legged,  light-bellied  thing, 
Within  the  green  pond's  reedy  ring, 
That  with  a  murmurous  joy  dost  sing 

Amid  the  croaking  nation, 
Brekekekex !    coax !    coax !     O  happy,  happy  frogs ! 

Brekekekex !    coax !    coax  !     O  happy,  happy  frogs ! 
Great  Jove  with  dark  clouds  sweeps  the  sky, 
Where  thunders  roll  and  lightnings  fly, 

And  gusty  winds  are  roaring; 
Fierce  Mars  his  stormy  steed  bestrides, 
And,  lashing  wild  its  bleeding  sides, 
O'er  dead  and  dying  madly  rides, 

Where  the  iron  hail  is  pouring. 
'Tis  well — such  crash  of  mighty  powers 
Must  be :   the  spell  may  not  be  ours 

To  tame  the  hot  creation. 
But  little  frogs  with  paddling  foot 
Can  sing  when  gods  and  kings  dispute, 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48  105 

And  little  bards  can  strum  the  lute 
Amid  the  croaking  nation, 
With  Brekekekex  !  coax  !   coax  !    O  happy,  happy  frogs  f 

Brekekekex !    coax  !    coax  !     O  happy,  happy  frogs ! 
Farewell !    not  always  may  I  sing 
Around  the  green  pond's  reedy  ring 

With  you,  ye  boggy  muses  ! 
But  I  must  go  and  do  stern  battle 
With  herds  of  stiff-necked  human  cattle, 
Whose  eager  lust  of  windy  prattle 

The  gentle  rein  refuses. 
Oh,  if — but  all  such  ifs  are  vain ; 
I'll  go  and  blow  my  trump  again, 

With  brazen  iteration; 
And  when,  by  Logic's  iron  rule, 
I've  quashed  each  briskly  babbling  fool, 
I'll  seek  again  your  gentle  school, 
And  hum  beside  the  tuneful  pool 
Amid  the  croaking. nation, 
Brekekekex !    coax  !    coax !     O  happy,  happy  frogs ! 


BOB-WHITE. 


CALE  YOUNG  RICE. 


OH,  call  to  your  mate,  bob-white,  bob-white, 
And  I  will  call  to  mine ; 
Call  to  her  by  the  meadow-gate, 
And  I  will  call  by  the  pine. 


Bob  White  More    Wet 


106  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Tell  her  the  sun  is  hid,  bob-v/hite, 

The  windy  wheat  sways  west. 
Whistle  again,  call  clear  and  run 

To  lure  her  out  of  her  nest. 

[Repeat  Bob-White  calls.] 

For  when  to  the  copse  she  comes,  shy  bird, 

With  Mary  down  the  lane 
I'll  walk,  in  the  dusk  of  the  locust-tops, 

And  be  her  lover  again. 

Ay,  we  will  forget  our  hearts  are  old, 

And  that  our  hair  is  gray. 
We'll  kiss  as  we  kissed  at  pale  sunset 

That  summer's  halcyon  day. 

That  day,  can  it  fade  ?  .   .    .  ah,  bob,  bob-white, 

Still  calling — calling  still  ? 
We're  coming — a-coming,  bent  and  weighed, 

But  glad  with  the  old  love's  thrill ! 

[Repeat  Bob-White  calls.] 


COW-PUNCHER'S    SONG. 


JOHN  A.  LOMAX. 


[Sing  second  stanza  only.     Repeat  singing  after  last  stanza  has  been  recited.] 


AS  I  walked  out  one  morning  for  pleasure, 
I  spied  a  cow-puncher  a-riding  alone ; 
His  hat  was  throwed  back  and  his  spurs  was  a-jingling, 
As  he  approached  me  a-singin'  this  song: 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   *8 


107 


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Whoopee  ti  yi  yo,  git  along,  little  dogies, 

It's  your  misfortune,  and  none  of  my  own. 
Whoopee  ti  yi  yo,  git  along,  little  dogies, 

For  you  know  Wyoming  will  be  your  new  home. 

Early  in  the  spring  we  round  up  the  dogies, 

Mark  and  brand  and  bob  off  their  tails ; 
Round  up  our  horses,  load  up  the  chuck-wagon, 

Then  throw  the  dogies  upon  the  trail. 

It's  whooping  and  yelling  and  driving  the  dogies ; 

Oh,  how  I  wish  you  would  go  on ; 
It's  whooping  and  punching  and  go  on,  little  dogies, 

For  you  know  Wyoming  will  be  your  new  home. 

Some  boys  goes  up  the  trail  for  pleasure, 

But  that's  where  you  get  it  most  awfully  wrong; 

For  you  haven't  any  idea  the  trouble  they  give  us 
While  we  go  driving  them  all  along. 

When  night  comes  on  and  we  hold  them  on  the  bedground, 

These  little  dogies  that  roll  on  so  slow; 
Roll  up  the  herd  and  cut  out  the  strays, 

And  roll  the  little  dogies  that  never  rolled  before. 


108 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


Your  mother  she  was  raised  way  down  in  Texas, 
Where  the  Jimson-weed  and  sand-burrs  grow ; 

Now  we'll  fill  you  up  on  the  prickly  pear  and  cholla 
Till  you  are  ready  for  the  trail  to  Idaho. 

Oh,  you'll  be  soup  for  Uncle  Sam's  Injuns ; 

"It's  beef,  heap  beef,"  I  hear  them  cry. 
Git  along,  git  along,  git  along,  little  dogies, 

You're  going  to  be  beef  steers  by  and  by. 


SCRAP  OF  COLLEGE  LORE. 


WILL  ALLEN  DROMGOOLE. 


[Sound  of  singing  is  heard  in  distance  off  stage.      Reciter  enters,   leaving  door  open, 
the  words  now  becoming  audible.] 


'Free  grace  an'  dyen  love, 
Free  grace  an'  dyen  love, 
Free  grace  an'  dyen  love, 
To  wash  me  white  as  snow.' 


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Free  grace    and      dy  -  ing  love    To    wash  me  white  as    snow. 

[Reciter  begins,  while  singer  off  stage  repeats,  several  times, 
foregoing  lines.] 

From  the  old  homestead  kitchen  a  voice  rang  out.  Over  and 
over  the  old  negress  sang  in  a  voice  cracked  and  quavering,  but 
full  of  faith. 

The  old  slave  mammy  was  preparing  supper  for  the  profligate 
young  master.      Handsome,   reckless    and    dissipated,  he  was, 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48  109 

nevertheless,  the  young  master  committed  to  her  care  by  the  real 
master. 

Mam  Tildy  stood  watching  the  sun's  last  rays  creeping  across 
the  cotton-fields,  watching  the  shadows  deepen,  and  her  thoughts 
were  with  the  scenes  of  earlier  years.  She  remembered  a  slave- 
prison,  a  market-place,  and  a  strong,  silent  woman  who  held  a 
little  child  by  the  hand.  That  woman  was  her  mother;  that 
child,  herself.  She  had  hidden  her  face  in  her  mother's  dress 
while  a  shrill  voice  called  for  "a  bid  for  a  likely  nigger  going  for 
a  song." 

"Ten  dollars!" 

Her  mother  clasped  her  hand  tighter.  Then  another  voice  had 
said,  "Fifty,  fifty  dollars  for  a  baby !" 

As  he  lifted  the  child  to  the  saddle  the  woman  had  said : 

"Don't  beat  her,  masser !  She's  only  a  nigger,  but  she's  my 
baby,  don't  beat  her !" 

"Never  a  lash  shall  she  have,  so  help  me  heaven."  And  the 
promise  had  been  kept. 

She  thought  of  her  dead  mistress.  Nine  years  ago  white  lips 
had  whispered,  "My  boy !    my  poor  boy !     Mam  Tildy !" 

"Yes,  Mistress." 

"As  I  have  dealt  by  you,  Mam  Tildy — " 

"I'll  foller  him  to  the  grave  and  hand  him  inter  heaven  ter  yer, 
if  the  good  Lord  spare  me." 

Now  the  old  master  slept  beside  the  mistress  in  the  burying- 
ground.    Both  died  of  a  broken  heart. 

The  tears  rolled  down  Mammy's  dark  cheek  as  she  recalled 
that  last  night  when,  just  at  dawn,  were  heard  the  words  of  a 
senseless,  drunken  song,  and  a  struggling,  reeling  figure  tumbled 
up  the  stairs.  The  disappointment  and  disgrace  were  too  bitter 
— a  shot  rang  out*.  The  old  man  could  bear  the  burden  no  longer. 
The  will  left  the  plantation  to  the  old  Mammy,  the  baby  bought 
at  Richmond  fifty  years  before. 

Here  Mam  Tildy's  dreaming  ended.  "It  orter  be  Masser  Hal's 
house,"  she  said.     "Ef  I  could  sell  it,  I  could  pay  his  debts  ter- 


HO  WERNER'S  READINGS 

morrow."  But  that  was  precisely  what  the  old  master  had  meant 
she  should  not  do.  It  was  hers  during  her  life,  and  she  was  to 
care  for  Hal. 

"But  it  orter  be  Mars  Hal's,"  she  declared.  "He  needs  it 
mighty  bad." 

She  went  back  to  work  humming  [hymn  is  sung  once  or  twice 
faintly  again  off  stage^  "Free  grace  an'  dyen  love,"  but  stopped 
abruptly — some  one  was  coming  up  the  walk,  a  quick,  boyish 
step.  It  did  not  stagger ;  it  came  straight  into  the  kitchen,  and 
although  the  hand  placed  on  Mam  Tildy's  arm  shook,  she  knew 
the  young  master  was  not  drunk. 

"Hide  me,  Mam  Tildy,  hide  me ;  I  have  killed  a  man,  and  they 
are  after  me." 

She  gave  a  glance  around  the  kitchen,  shoved  her  biscuit-board 
aside,  and  pointed  to  the  large,  empty  barrel  upon  which  it  rested. 
The  next  moment  the  board  was  in  its  place,  and  she  was  sing- 
ing, "Free  grace  an'  dyen  love."  [One  line  of  hymn  is  sung 
again  off  stage.] 

The  sheriff's  posse,  coming  up  the  walk,  detected  no  break  in 
the  song,  and  the  sheriff  saw  nothing  odd  in  the  fact  that  he  had 
to  call  twice  before  the  old  negress  turned  to  hear  his  demand  for 
Harry  Gordon. 

She  dropped  the  rolling-pin  with  a  great  clatter,  and  was,  as 
the  officer  thought,  taken  by  surprise. 

"Don't  tease  a  poor  old  nigger  dat  away.  Ef  Mars  Hal  hab 
done  sumpin'  sure-nuff,  for  de  lub  of  Gord,  don't  stan'  dar 
foolin',  but  tell  ole  Tildy  and  let  her  go  to  him." 

The  men  were  touched. 

"Aunt  Tildy,"  said  the  sheriff,  "he  isn't  worth  your  affection. 
You  can't  go  to  him,  for  we  haven't  found  him.  Go  back  to 
your  dough,  and  don't  waste  any  more  tears  on-  the  scamp." 

That  night  the  fugitive  received  all  Mam  Tildy's  money. 

"Ef  I  could  jes'  sell  the  place,  little  master,  the  money  ud  fetch 
you  out  of  danger." 


AND  RECITATIONS   NO.   48  111 

"The  place  is  too  hot  for  me,"  was  the  reply.  "Only  let  me 
get  away." 

He  started  for  the  door  twice,  looked  at  the  old  nurse,  who 
sat  with  apron  over  her  head,  sobbing  and  mourning,  then  went 
back  and  touched  her  lightly. 

"Mam  Tildy,  I'll  write  you  if  I  ever  get  beyond  the  county  jail, 
and  you  shall  come  to  me.  Good-bye ;  if  I  ever  get  to  heaven, 
Mam  Tildy,  it  will  be  your  work."  He  laughed  softly,  and  stole 
away  in  the  darkness. 

Mam  Tildy  followed  him  to  the  prison.  Her  little  cabin  stood 
between  the  stockade  and  the  coal  mine,  and  she  could  see  him 
going  to  and  from  work. 

She  often  went  where  the  men  were  eating  dinner,  to  carry  him 
something  from  her  own  kitchen.  He  laughed  at  her  for  this, 
telling  her  it  was  as  foolish  as  her  old  song  of  free  grace  and 
dying  love. 

One  evening  a  squad  of  convicts,  coming  in  from  the  mine, 
heard  her  singing. 

"Yer  mammy's  singing  fer  yer,  sonny,"  laughed  a  convict. 

"I  wonder  where  she  got  that  queer  song,"  said  another. 
"There  isn't  so  much  to  the  words,  but  somehow  it  makes  a 
feller  want  to  go  home  to  his  mother." 

"It's  the  first  thing  I  remember  to  have  heard,"  said  Hal.  "I 
think  she  sang  it  the  day  I  was  born,  and  I  expect  she  will  sing 
it  at  my  funeral." 

The  chains  rattled,  the  gates  swung  back  and  the  squad  went 
in.  In  a  few  minutes  he  stood  before  his  cell-door  humming 
softly,  "Free  grace  and  dying  love." 

"What  a  funny  old  song,"  he  said  to  himself;  "I  wonder  what 
it  means,  anyway.     I'll  ask  Mam  Tildy." 

As  the  iron  door  swung  back  he  glanced  up  at  a  dainty  carving 
above  the  entrance.    It  was  done  in  Latin,  with  his  own  penknife. 

"Errare  humanum  est."     That  was  all  of  his  college  lore  he 


112  WERNER'S  READINGS 

had  carried  out  into  the  world — ended,  summed  up  in  that  one 
sentence,  "To  err  is  human." 

He  laughed  aloud  when  he  found  the  chaplain's  card  on  his 
shelf.  It  bore  his  own  Latin  motto,  to  which  'the  pious  man  had 
added,  "To  forgive  is  divine." 

One  morning,  having  received  permission,  Mam  Tildy  was 
scrubbing  out  his  cell  and  singing  in  the  old  familiar  way.  Hal 
stopped  on  his  way  to  join  the  mine  gang,  and  said,  "Mam  Tildy, 
that's  a  funny  old  song  you  sing;  what  does  it  mean  anyway — 
your  free  grace  and  dying  love?" 

"You'll  know  some  day,  little  master,  I  can't  tell  you,  honey; 
old  Tildy  ain't  got  much  sense.  You'll  know  what  free  grace 
am,  some  day." 

The  next  morning  Hal  was  lying  in  a  hospital  in  deadly 
stupor.     He  had  been  hurt. 

"Go  bring  the  old  nurse,"  bade  the  physician. 

She  came  at  once  and  bent  over  him. 

"Mars  Hal,  does  yer  know  me,  honey?  How  is  yer,  little 
marster  ?" 

His  hand  moved  till  it  found  the  hand  of  the  old  nurse. 

"Mam  Tildy?" 

"Yes,  my  love." 

"Take  me  home." 

"Yes,  honey ;  Mam  Tildy's  gwine  sen'  yer  home  soon ;  she 
done  promised  the  mistress." 

"Mam  Tildy." 

"Yes,  honey." 

"Sing." 

She  began  to  croon  a  hymn,  but  he  stopped  her. 

"No,  no ;    sing  your  free  grace — you  used  to  sing  it  at  home." 

[Singing  of  hymn  off  stage. ~\ 

Tremblingly,  trustfully,  she  began  and  went  bravely  to  the 
end.  When  she  had  finished,  he  lay  still  and  murmured,  "To  err 
is  human — free  grace — divine — dying  love."     Then  he  smiled. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48 


113 


Mam  Tildy  tried  to  help  him:  'Tree  grace  an'  dyen  love, 
Mars  Hal." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  he  whispered,  then,  with  sudden  strength,  he 
raised  himself  and  clasped  his  arms  about  Mam  Tildy's  neck, 

smiling. 

****** 

The  physician  took  out  his  watch,  waited  five  minutes,  and  said : 
"Mam  Tildy,  you  may  go  now." 

"Yes,  Marster,  Fse  ready;    ole  Tildy's  work  is  done." 
[Singing  of  hymn  as  reciter  goes  off  stage.] 


WOMAN    SUFFRAGE    MARCHING-SONG. 


LOUIS  J.  BLOCK. 


L 


O !  the  nations  have  been  toiling  up  a  steep  and  rugged  road, 
Resting  oft  by   stream   and  mountain,   bent  beneath  the 
heavy  load, 
Gazing  toward  the  coming  freedom   from  the  anguish  and  the 


goad, 


For  the  hope  has   led  them  en. 

Glory,  glory,  hallcluia! 
Glory,  glory,  halleluia! 
Glory,  glory,  halleluia! 
For  the  hope  has  led  them  on. 


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114 


WERNER'S   READINGS 


In  the  western  strong  republic,  under  skies  pierced  through  and 

through 
With  a  light  of  nobler  foresight,  life  becomes  more  rich  and  true, 
And  a  mightier  strength  is  given  to  the  hands  that  strive  and  do, 
While  the  hope  still  leads  men  on. 

Mother,  prophetess,  and  holy,  through  the  ages  of  the  clan, 
Uttering  words  of  potent  wisdom  in  the  ear  of  struggling  man, 
Woman  rose  and  strode  beside  him  'mid  the  dangers  of  the  van, 
Kindling  hope  that  led  him  on. 

Now  again  that  voice  is  ringing  through  the  ever  brightening  air, 
And  her  wakened  heart  is  calling  unto  labors,  fine  and  fair, 
That  shall  weave  the  robes  of  beauty  which  mankind  in  peace 
shall  wear, 

Since  the  hope  is  leading  on. 

Forth  they  step  and  march  together,  forth  the  man  and  woman  go, 
To  the  plains  of  vast  achievement,  where  unfettered  rivers  flow, 
And  their  work  shall  stand  exalted,  and  their  eyes  shall  shine 
and  glow, 

With  the  hope  that  led  them  on. 


Glory,  glory,  halleluia! 
Glory,  glory,  halleluia! 
Glory,  glory,  halleluia! 
For  the  hope  still  leads  them  on! 


AND   RECITATIONS   XO.   48 
HOUSECLEANING. 


115 


Comedy  Verse  Recital  for  Max. 


CARRIE  W.  BROXSOX. 


[From   repertoire    of   Mrs.    Frederick   W.    Pender.] 


[Man  enters,  looking  somewhat  dishevelled  and  tired,  singing.'] 

Sing  a  song  of  cleaning  house, 

Pockets  full  of  nails; 
Four-and-twenty  dust-pans, 

Scrubbing-brooms  and  pails. 
When  the  door  is  opened, 

Wife  begins  to  sing — 

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116  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Just  help  me  move  this  bureau  here, 

And  hang  this  picture,  won't  you,  dear? 

And  tack  that  carpet  by  the  door, 

And  stretch  this  one  a  little  more, 

And  drive  this  nail  and  screw  this  screw; 

And  here's  another  job  for  you — 

This  closet  door  will  never  catch, 

I  think  you  better  fix  the  latch ; 

And,  Oh,  while  you're  about  it,  John, 

I  wish  you'd  put  the  cornice  on, 

And  hang  this  curtain ;   when  you're  done, 

I'll  hand  you  up  the  other  one ; 

This  box  has  got  to  have  a  hinge 

Before  I  can  put  on  the  fringe ; 

And  won't  you  mend  that  broken  chair; 

I'd  like  a  hook  put  up  right  there  ;• 

The  bureau  drawer  must  have  a  knob ; 

And  here's  another  little  job— 

I  really  hate  to  ask  you,  dear — 

But  could  ybu  fix  a  bracket  here  ?" 

So  goes  it  on,  the  long  day  through, 
With  this  and  that  and  those  to  do, 
Ad  infinitum  and  more,  too, 

All  in  a  merry  jingle — 
Now  isn't  that  enough  to  make 

A  man  wish  he  were  single  ?     (Almost.) 
[Exits  singing  introductory  stanza  again.] 


JES'  WHISTLE  UP  A  SONG. 


[Reciter    whistles   after    every    stanza.] 


I 


F  th'  road  yer  feet  is  treadin' 

Keeps  a-croakin'  an'  a-spreadin' 
Till  it  seems  as  if  'twas  most  uncommon  long, 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48 


117 


Don't  let  your  ehin  tip  quiver, 
Though  yer  knees  is  all  a-shiver; 

Jes'  crack  a  joke,  er  whistle  up  a  song. 


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When  th'  clouds  begin  to  thicken, 
An'  th'  lightnin'  is  a-flicken 

An'  a-snappin'  like  ol'  Lucifer  gone  wrong, 
Jes'  you  hoi'  yer  head  up  higher, 
Jog  yer  feet  a  little  spryer, 

An'  crack  a  joke  er  whistle  up  a  song. 


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Don't  yer  ferget  fer  a  minute 
Other  folks  is  trav'lin'  in  it 

Jes'  as  footsore  as  yerself  an'  not  so  strong: 
An'  when  they're  a-growin'  weary, 
It  will  make  'em  chirk  an'  cheery 

To  crack  a  joke  er  whistle  up  a  song. 


I  J  4    -.*— i — P   9   m — I 1 — " — \-m — I — I 


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If  yer  cup  o'  life  is  bitter, 
Don't  ye  never  be  a  quitter; 

Jes'  drink  it  down  an'  pass  th'  jug  along, 
Hopin'  all  is  fer  th'  best. 
'Twill  taste  sweeter  to  th'  rest, 

When  yer  jokin'  er  a-whistlin'  up  a  song. 


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118 


WERNER'S   READINGS 


Then,  when  yer  journey's  ended, 
An'  yer  sottl  stands  undefended, 

While  th'  'cordin'  Angel  foots  the  columns  long, 
Ye'll  see  yer  head  was  level 
An'  ye've  bunko-steered  th'  devil 

With  yer  jokin'  an'  yer  whistlin'  up  a  song. 


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LULLABIES   OF   VARIOUS   LANDS. 


[May  be  given  by  8,  or  by  8  groups  of  any  number  of  children,  dressed  in  cos- 
tumes of  nations  represented.  Girls  may  also  hold  dolls  dressed  in  similar  costumes. 
Children   may    recite    or   sing   the    words,    while   the    music   is    played    as   background.] 


Danish. 

SLEEP,  sleep,  little  mouse. 
The  field  your  father  ploughs ; 
Your  mother  feeds  pigs  in  the'  sty, 
She'll  come  and  slap  you  if  you  cry. 


Danish. 


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AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48 


119 


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Chinese. 


Snail,  snail,  come  out  and  be  fed, 
Put  out  your  horns  and  then  your  head, 
And  thy  mammy  will  give  mutton  to  thee, 
For  thou  art  doubly  dear  to  me. 


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120 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


Spanish. 
In  the  sky  the  moon  shines  bright, 
And  the  snake  darts  swift  and  light; 
I  see  five  baby  bullocks 
And  a  calf  that's  young  and  white. 


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Sleep,  my  baby,  sleep, 
Sleep  a  slumber  hale. 
Sweetly  rest  till  morning  light, 
My  little  farmer  boy,  so  bright. 
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AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48 


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Zulit. 

Hush  thee,  my  baby. 
Thy  mother's  over  the  mountain  gone ; 
There  she  will  dig  the  little  garden  patch, 
And  water  she  will  fetch  from  the  river. 


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Row,  row  to  Baltiwarock; 
How  many  fish  are  caught  in  the  net  ? 
One  for  father  and  one  for  mother, 
One  for  sister  and  one  for  brother. 


122 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


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Swedish. 

Hush,  hush,  baby  mine; 
Pussy  climbs  the  big  green  pine; 
Mother  turns  the  millstone. 
Father,  to  kill  the  pig  has  gone. 

Swedish. 


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AND   RECITATIONS   NO. 


123 


German. 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep. 
Thy  father  guards  the  sheep ; 
Thy  mother  shakes  the  dreamland  tree. 
And  from  it  falls  sweet  dreams  for  thee; 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep. 
re  r  man. 


WEDDING  OF  CAPTAIN  GADSBY. 


RUDYARD  KIPLIXG. 


Scene:  Bachelor's  bedroom.  Captain  Gadsby  asleep  and 
snoring  heavily.  Time  10.30  a.  m.  Enter  Captain  Mafflin, 
of  Gadsby's  regiment. 

Capt.  M.    Wake  up,  my  sleeping  beauty! 

Capt.  G.  [sitting  up  and  yawning],     Alornin'.     This  is  awf'ly 


124  WERNER'S  READINGS 

good  of  you,  old  fellow.  Don't  know  what  I  should  do  without 
you.    Haven't  slept  a  wink  all  night. 

Capt.  M.  I  didn't  get  in  till  half-past  eleven.  Had  a  look  at 
you  then,  and  you  seemed  to  be  sleeping  as  soundly  as  a  con- 
demned criminal. 

Capt.  G.  Jack,  if  you  want  to  make  those  disgustingly  worn- 
out  jokes,  you'd  better  go  away.  [With  portentous  gravity.] 
It's  the  happiest  day  in  my  life. 

Capt.  M.  [chuckling  grimly].  Not  by  a  very  long  chalk,  my 
son.  You're  going  through  some  of  the  most  refined  torture 
you've  ever  known.  But  be  calm !  I  am  with  you.  'Shun ! 
Dress! 

Capt.  G.     Eh!     Wha-at? 

Capt.  M.  Do  you  suppose  that  you  are  your  own  master  for 
the  next  twelve  hours?  If  you  do,  of  course  .  .  .  [Makes  for 
door.] 

Capt.  G.  No !  For  goodness  sake,  old  man,  don't  do  that ! 
You'll  see  me  through,  won't  you?  I  can't  remember  a  line  of 
that  beastly  drill. 

Capt.  M.  [overhauling  G.'s  uniform'].  Don't  bother  me.  I'll 
give  you  ten  minutes  to  dress  in. 

[Interval] 

Capt.  G.  [emerging  from  dressing-room'].     What  time  is  it? 

Capt.  M.    Nearly  eleven. 

Capt.  G.     Five  hours  more.     O  Lord ! 

Capt.  M.  [aside].  First  sign  of  funk,  that.  Wonder  if  it's 
going  to  spread.     [Aloud.]     Come  along  to  breakfast. 

Capt.  G.     I  cant'  eat  anything.     I  don't  want  any  breakfast. 

Capt.  M.  [aside].  So  early!  [Aloud.]  Captain  Gadsby,  I 
order  you  to  eat  breakfast,  and  a  good  breakfast,  too.  None  of 
your  bridal  airs  and  graces  with  me ! 

[Stands  over  him  while  he  eats  two  chops.] 

Capt.  G.  [zvho  has  looked  at  his  zvatch  thrice  in  the  last  five 
minutes] .    What  time  is  it  ? 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48  125 

Capt.  M.     Time  for  a  walk.    Light  up. 

Capt.  G.  I  haven't  smoked  for  ten  days,  and  I  won't  now. 
[Takes  cheroot  which  M.  has  cut  for  him,  and  blows  smoke 
through  his  nose  luxuriously.]  We  aren't  going  down  the  Mall, 
are  we? 

Capt.  M.  [aside].  They're  all  alike  in  these  stages.  [Aloud.'] 
No,  my  vestal.    We're  going  along  the  quietest  road  we  can  find. 

Capt.  G.    Any  chance  of  seeing  her? 

Capt.  M.  Innocent!  No!  Come  along;  and,  if  you  want 
me  for  the  final  obsequies,  don't  cut  my  eye  out  with  your  stick. 

Capt.  G.  [spinning  round].  I  say,  isn't  she  the  dearest  creature 
that  ever  walked?  What's  the  time?  What  comes  after  "Wilt 
thou  take  this  woman?"    " 

Capt.  M.  You  go  for  the  ring.  R'c'lect  it  will  be  on  the  top 
of  my  right-hand  little  finger,  and  just  be  careful  how  you  draw 
it  off,  because  I  shall  have  the  wedding-fee  somewhere  in  my 
glove. 

Capt.  G.  [walking  forward  hastily].  Come  along!  It's  past 
twelve,  and  I  haven't  seen  her  since  yesterday  evening.  [Spinning 
round  again.]  She's  an  absolute  angel,  Jack,  and  she's  a  deal  too 
good  for  me.  Look  here,  does  she  come  up  the  aisle  on  my  arm, 
or  how? 

Capt.  M.  If  I  thought  that  there  was  the  least  chance  of  your 
remembering  anything  for  two  consecutive  minutes,  I'd  tell  you. 

Capt.  G.  [halting  in  middle  of  road].    I  say,  Jack. 

Capt.  M.  Keep  quiet  for  another  ten  minutes  if  you  can,  you 
lunatic,  and  walk! 

[The  two  tramp  at  five  miles  an  hour  for  fifteen  minutes.] 

Capt.  G.  What's  the  time  ?  How  about  that  cursed  wedding- 
cake  and  the  slippers?  They  don't  throw  'em  about  in  church, 
do  they? 

Capt.  M.     In-variably. 

Capt.  G.    Don't  make  fun  of  me.    I  can't  stand  it,  and  I  won't ! 

Capt.  M.  [untroubled].  So-ooo,  old  horse!  You'll  have  to 
sleep  for  a  couple  of  hours  this  afternoon. 


126  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Capt.  G.  [spinning  round].  I'm  not  going  to  be  treated  like  a 
child.    Understand  that ! 

Capt.  M.  [aside].  Nerves  gone  to  fiddle-strings.  [Tenderly 
putting  hand  on  G.'s  shoulder.]  My  David,  how  long  have  you 
known  this  Jonathan  ?  Would  I  come  up  here  to  make  a  fool  of 
you — after  all  these  years? 

Capt.  G.  [penitently].  I  know,  I  know,  Jack — but  I'm  as  upset 
as  I  can  be.  Don't  mind  what  I  say.  Just  hear  me  run  through 
the  drill  and  see  if  I've  got  it  all  right: 

"To  have  and  to  hold,  for  better  or  worse,  as  it  was  in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and 
ever  shall  be,  world  without  end,  so  help  me  God, — Amen." 

Capt.  M.  [suffocating  with  suppressed  laughter].  Yes.  That's 
about  the  gist  of  it.     I'll  prompt  if  you  get  into  a  hat. 

Capt.  G.  [earnestly] .  Yes,  you'll  stick  by  me,  Jack,  won't  you  ? 
I'm  awf'ly  happy,  but  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I'm  in  a  blue 
funk! 

Capt.  M.  [gravely].  Are  you?  I  should  never  have  noticed 
it.     You  don't  look  like  it. 

Capt.  G.  Don't  I?  That's  all  right.  [Spinning  round.]  On 
my  soul  and  honor,'  Jack,  she's  the  sweetest  little  angel  that  ever 
came  down  from  the  sky.  There  isn't  a  woman  on  earth  fit  to 
speak  to  Her ! 

Capt.  M.  [aside].  And  this  is  old  Gaddy !  [Aloud.]  Go  on, 
if  it  relieves  you. 

Capt.  G.    You  can  laugh !    That's  all  you  bachelors  are  fit  for. 

Capt.  M.  [drazuling].  You  never  would  wait  for  the  troop 
to  come  up.     You  aren't  quite  married  yet,  y'know. 

Capt.  G.  Ugh !  That  reminds  me.  I  don't  believe  I  shall  be 
able  to  get  into  my  boots.  Let's  go  home  and  try  'em  on !  [Hur- 
ries forward.] 

Capt.  M.    Wouldn't  be  in  your  shoes  for  anything. 

Capt.  G.  [spinning  round].  That  just  shows  your  dense  stu- 
pidity— your  brutal  narrow-mindedness.  There's  only  one  fault 
about  you.  You're  the  best  of  good  fellows  and  I  don't  know 
what  I  should  have  done  without  you,  but — you  aren't  married. 
[Wags  head  gravely.]    Take  a  wife,  Jack. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48  127 

Capt.  M.  [with  a  face  like  a  wall].    Ya'as.    Whose  for  choice? 

Capt.  G.  If  you're  going  to  be  a  blackguard,  I'm  going  on. 
.    .    .  What's  the  time? 

Capt.  M.  I'm  going  to  take  you  home,  and  you're  going  to 
lie  down. 

Capt.  G.    What  on  earth  do  I  want  to  lie  down  for? 

Capt.  M.     Give  me  a  light  of  your  cheroot  and  see. 

Capt.  G.  [watching  cheroot,  but  quivering  like  a  tuning-fork]. 
Sweet  state  I'm  in ! 

Capt.  M      You  are.     I'll  get  you  a  peg  and  you'll  go  to  sleep. 

[They  return  and  M.  compounds  a  four-finger  peg.~\ 

Capt.  G.    It'll  make  me  as  drunk  as  an  owl. 

Capt.  M.  Curious  thing,  'twon't  have  the  slightest  effect  on 
you.    Drink  it  off,  and  go  to  bye-bye. 

Capt.  G.     It's  absurd ;   I  sha'n't  sleep,  I  know  I  sha'n't ! 

[Falls  into  heavy  dose  at  end  of  ten  minutes.  Capt.  M.  watches 
him  tenderly.] 

Capt.  M.  Poor  old  Gaddy !  I've  seen  a  few  turned  off  before, 
but  never  one  who  went  to  the  gallows  in  this  condition.  .  .  . 
And  that's  the  man  who  went  through  the  guns  like  a  devil  pos- 
sessed of  devils.  [Leans  over  G.~\  But  this  is  worse  than  the 
guns,  old  pal — worse  than  the  guns,  isn't  it?  [G.  turns  in  liis 
sleep,  and  M.  touches  him  clumsily  on  forehead.]  Poor,  dear  old 
Gaddy !  Going  like  the  rest  of  'em — going  like  the  rest  of  'em. 
.  .  .  Friend  that  sticketh  closer  than  a  brother  .  .  .  eight  years. 
Dashed  bit  of  a  slip  of  a  girl  .  .  .  eight  weeks !  And — where's 
your  friend?  [Smokes  disconsolately  till  church  clock  strikes 
three.] 

Capt.  M.    Up  with  you !     Get  into  your  kit. 

Capt.  G.  Already?  Isn't  it  too  soon?  Hadn't  I  better  have 
a  shave? 

Capt.  M.  No!  You're  all  right.  [Aside.]  He'd  chip  his 
chin  to  pieces. 

Capt.  G.     What's  the  hurry? 

Capt.  M.    You've  got  to  be  there  first. 


128 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


Capt.  G.    To  be  stared  at? 

Capt.  M.    Exactly.    You're  part  of  the  show. 

[Capt.  G.  dresses;  M.  follows  suit.] 

Capt.  M.  [critically,  walking  round].  M'yes,  you'll  do.  Only 
don't  look  so  like  a  criminal.  Ring,  gloves,  fees — that's  all  right 
for  me.    Let  your  mustache  alone.    Now,  we'll  go. 

Capt.  G.  [nervously'].  It's  much  too  soon.  Let's  light  up! 
Let's— 

[Bells  zvithout.] 

Goo  d — p  e  o — p  le — all 
To  prayers— we  call. 

To  be  sung  as  a  chant. 
Slowly. 


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to     pray'rs       we       call. 


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Capt.  M.    There  go  the  bells !    Come  on — unless  you'd  rather 
not.     [They  ride  off.] 
[Bells—] 

We  honor  the  King 
And  Bride's  joy  do  bring — ■ 
Good  tidings  we  tell 
And  ring  the  Dead's  knell. 


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AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48 


129 


Good         ti    -   dings    we     tell,       And        ring     the  dead's  knell. 


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Capt.  G.  [dismounting  at  door  of  church].  I  say,  aren't  we 
much  too  soon?  There  is  no  end  of  people  inside.  I  say,  aren't 
we  much  too  late  ?    Stick  by  me,  Jack  ! 

Capt.  M.  Strike  an  attitude  at  the  head  of  the  aisle  and  wait 
for  Her.  [G.  groans  as  M.  wheels  him  into  position  before  three 
hundred  eyes.] 

Capt.  M.  [imploringly].  Gaddy,  if  you  love  me,  for  pity's 
sake,  for  the  honor  of  the  regiment,  stand  up  !  Look  like  a  man ! 
[G.  breaks  into  gentle  perspiration.]  If  you  wipe  your  face  I'll 
never  be  your  best  man  again.     Stand  up!  [G.  trembles  visibly.] 

Capt.  M.  [returning].  She's  coming  now.  Look  out  when  the 
music  starts.    There's  the  organ  beginning. 

[Bride  steps  out  of  'rickshaw  at  church  door.  G.  catches 
glimpse  of  her  and  takes  heart.'] 

Capt.  M.  [watching  G.].  By  Jove!  He  is  looking  well. 
Didn't  think  he  had  it  in  him. 

Capt.  G.     How  long  does  this  hymn  go  on  for  ? 

Capt.  M.  It  will  be  over  directly.  [Anxiously.']  Beginning 
to  bleach  and  gulp  ?    Hold  oh,  Gaddy,  and  think  o'  the  regiment. 

Capt.  G.  [mcasurcdly] .  I  say,  there's  a  big  brown  lizard  crawl- 
ing up  that  wall. 

Capt.  M.    My  sainted  mother !    The  last  stage  of  collapse  ! 

[Bride  comes  up  to  left  of  altar,  lifts  eyes  once  to  G.,  who  is 
suddenly  smitten  mad.] 

Capt.  G.  [To  himself  again  and  again].  Little  Featherweight's 
a  woman — a  woman !     And  I  thought  she  was  a  little  gfirl. 


130  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Capt.  M.   [in  a  whisper'].     Forward!     Halt!     Inward  wheel. 

[Capt.  G.  obeys  mechanically  and  ceremony  proceeds.] 

Padre.     .   .   .  Only  unto  her  as  long  as  ye  both  shall  live? 

Capt.  G.  [his  throat  useless] .     Ha — hmm ! 

Capt.  M.  Say  you  will  or  you  won't.  There's  no  second  deal 
here. 

[Bride  gives  response  with  perfect  coolness,  and  is  given  away 
by  her  father.] 

Capt.  G.  [thinking  to  show  his  learning].  Jack,  give  me  away 
now,  quick ! 

Capt.  M.  You've  given  yourself  away  quite  enough.  Her 
right  hand,  man  !  Repeat !  Repeat !  "Theodore  Philip."  Have 
you  forgotten  your  own  name? 

[Capt.  G.  stumbles  through  the  Affirmation,  which  bride  repeats 
without  a  tremor.] 

Capt.  M.  Now  the  ring!  Follow  the  Padre!  Don't  pull  off 
my  glove  !     Here  it  is  !     Great  Cupid,  he's  found  his  voice ! 

[G.  repeats  troth  in  a  voice  to  be  heard  to  end  of  church,  and 
turns  on  his  heel.] 

Capt.  M.  [desperately].  Back  to  your  troop!  'Tisn't  half 
legal  yet. 

Padre.     .   .   .  joined  together  let  no  man  put  asunder. 

Capt.  M.  [quickly].  On  your  front — one  length.  Take  her 
with  you.  I  don't  come.  You've  nothing  to  say.  [Capt.  G. 
jingles  up  to  altar.] 

Capt.  M.  [in  piercing  rattle  meant  to  be  a  whisper].  Kneel, 
you  stiff-necked  ruffian  !    Kneel ! 

Padre.  .  .  .  whose  daughters  ye  are,  so  long  as  ye  do  well 
and  are  not  afraid  with  any  amazement. 

Capt.  M.    Dismiss  !    Break  off !    Left  wheel ! 

[All  troop  to  vestry.    They  sign.] 

Capt.  M.     Kiss  her,  Gaddy. 

Capt.  G.  [rubbing  the  ink  into  his  glove].    Wha-at? 

Capt.  M.  [taking  one  pace  to  bride].    If  you  don't,  I  shall. 

Capt.  G.  [interposing  one  arm].    Not  this  journey! 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48  131 

[General  kissing.] 

Capt.  G.  [faintly  to  M.].    Can  I  wipe  my  face  now? 

Capt.  M.  My  responsibility  has  ended.  Better  ask  Mrs. 
Gadsby. 

[Capt.  G.  winces  as  if  shot  and  the  procession  is  Mendels- 
sohncd  out  of  church  to  paternal  roof.] 

Capt.  M.  [at  table].  Up  with  you,  Gaddy.  They  expect  a 
speech. 

Capt.  G.  [after  three  minutes'  agony].  Ha — hmmm.  [Thun- 
ders of  applause.'] 

Capt.  M.  Doocid  good,  for  a  first  attempt.  Now,  go  and 
change  your  kit  while  Mamma  is  weeping  over — "the  Missus." 
[Capt.  G.  disappears.] 

Capt.  M.  [starts  up,  tearing  his  hair].  It's  not  half  legal. 
Where  are  the  shoes?  Some  one  lend  me  a  bread-knife.  We 
mustn't  crack  Gaddy's  head  more  than  it  is.  [Slices  heel  off 
white  satin  slipper  and  puts  slipper  up  his  sleeve.]  Where  is  the 
bride?     [To  company  at  large.]     Be  tender  with  that  rice. 

[Bride  slips  out  quietly  into  'rickshaw  and  departs.] 

Capt.  M.  [in  the  open] .  Stole  away,  by  Jove !  .So  much  the 
worse  for  Gaddy!    Here  he  is.   Now,  Gaddy,  where's  your  horse? 

Capt.  G.  [furiously,  seeing  that  the  women  are  out  of  earshot] . 
Where — is  my  wife? 

Capt.  M.  Half-way  to  Mahasu  by  this  time.  You'll  have  to 
ride  like  young  Lochinvar. 

[Horse  comes  round  on  his  hind  legs;  refuses  to  let  G.  handle 
him.] 

Capt.  G.  Oh,  you  will,  will  you?  Get  round,  you  brute — you 
beast!     Get  round! 

[Wrenches  horse's  head  over,  swings  himself  into  saddle,  and 
sends  home  both  spurs.] 

Capt..  M.  For  your  life  and  your  love — ride,  Gaddy ! — and 
God  bless  you ! 

[Throzvs  half  a  pound  of  rice  at  G.  zvho  disappears,  bowed 
forward  on  saddle,  in  a  cloud  of  sunlit  dust.] 


132 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


Oapt.  M.     I've  lost  old  Gaddy.     {Lights  cigarette  and  strolls 
off,  singing  absently:] 

"You  may  carve  it  on  his  tombstone,  you  may  cut  it  on  his  card, 
That  a  young  man  married  is  a  young  man  marred!" 

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A  BUSTED   DOLLY. 


Words  of  Song  and  Music  by  JOSEPHINE  MERWIN  COOK. 


Monologue  by  Stanley  Schell. 


{Written  expressly  for  this  book.] 


Character  Speaking:  Girl  dressed  as  forlorn-looking  doll; 
one  arm  and  one  leg  gone ;  crutch ;  one  eye  covered ;  ragged 
clothes. 

Scene:  Disordered  children's  playroom.  Dolls,  beautifully 
dressed,  lying  helter-skelter,  on  chairs,  sofa,  etc.  At  rise  of 
curtain  speaker  sits  doubled  up  in  big  arm-chair,  then  with 
undulating,  lazy  movements  gets  out  of  chair,  shows  diffi- 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48  133 

culty  in  getting  up,  her  movements  being  stiff  and  an- 
gular in  imitation  of  a  doll's  movements.  Goes  to  mirror, 
left  front  of  stage,  and  gazes  awhile  at  herself.  With  good 
arm  she  tries  to  arrange  torn  pieces  of  gown,  turns  with 
pathetic  look  towards  audience,  points  to  gown,  passing  hand 
over  it,  then  speaks. 

AND  this  is  what  I  have  come  to — I — I — I,  the  once  famous 
Ann  Marie  that  won  the  hearts  of  the  little  ones  of  Paris. 

[Looks  again  into  mirror,  points  at  self.] 

One  arm  gone,  one  leg  gone,  one  eye  gone,  hair  spoiled,  silk 
gown  in  rags,  shoes  torn — dirty,  dirty,  dirty  Ann  Marie.    [Sighs.] 

One  month  ago  I  was  so  happy,  so  proud,  so  gay  and  bright. 
I  had  won  the  Paris  medal  for  beauty — how  beautiful  I  was — 
such  a  complexion — all  the  children  raved  about  me — the  big 
people,  too — [painful  expression],  and  now,  alas!  even  my  saw- 
dust is  nearly  gone. 

When  Mr.  Vanderflip  purchased  me  for  his  Louise  I  was 
simply  in  heaven.  The  way  Louise  clasped  me  close  to  her  lovely 
gown  filled  me  with  ecstacy.  Alas  !  [sighs]  Alas  !  how  brief  was 
that  happiness !  One  day  she  invited  her  friends  to  visit  her. 
That  was  just  a  week  after  she  had  got  me.  She  paraded  all 
about  this  room  to  show  my  style.  The  other  girls'  dolls  were 
very  jealous.  How  brief  that  jealousy!  [Sighs.]  How  brief 
my  glory ! 

Ah,  I  remember,  I  was  queen  that  day;  I  sat  at  the  head  of  the 
dolls'  table  and  had  all  the  nicest  tit-bits.  My  hair  never  looked 
so  lovely.  What  a  joyous  time  that  was  !  The  little  girls  sang 
the  prettiest  songs  and  played  the  nicest  games,  and  then  the 
nurses  came  and  took  them  home.  When  the  children  were  gone 
a  great  big  black  dog  came  in  and  smelled  all  around  the  room, 
and  then  suddenly  made  a  rush  for  the  dolls'  table  where  I  sat 
alone.  He  knocked  me  off  the  chair,  ate  all  the  food  on  the  table 
and  then  turned  viciously  on  me  and  pulled  off  my  arm — how  it 
hurt !  Then  he  clawed  my  dress  in  ribbons  and  chewed  my  hair 
and  left  me  all  mussed  like  I  am  now.  I  don't  know  what  hap- 
pened after  that  for  awhile.     I  didn't  know  how  I  looked   for 


134  WERNER'S  READINGS 

some  time.  My  distress  was  terrible.  I  began  to  wonder  how 
my  little  mistress  would  treat  me  when  she  saw  me. 

[Sobs  heavily.] 

I  can  never  forget  the  moment  when  she  came  back  and  saw 
me  on  the  floor.  She  let  out  a  scream  that  would  almost  wake 
the  dead.  "My  dolly,  my  dolly,  my  Ann  Marie,  what  has  hap- 
pened to  you?  What  has  happened  to  you?"  She  turned  me 
all  around  and  fussed  with  my  skirt,  trying  to  make  it  look  decent. 
She  picked  up  my  arm  and  tried  to  fix  it  on,  then  threw  my  arm 
on  the  table  and  sat  down  and  cried  and  cried.  The  nurse  came 
in,  and,  when  Louise  told  her  about  me,  the  nurse  waved  her 
hands  and  said,  "That  beast  of  a  dog  must  have  done  this.  I'll 
kill  him  for  this."  Then  Louise  jumped  up  and  said,  "No  one 
dare  hurt  my  darling  Ponto.  Ponto  didn't  know  it  was  wrong  to 
hurt  Dolly,"  and  then  she  began  to  cry  all  over  again. 

She  never  seemed  to  realize  my  feelings,  for  she  flung  me  down 
on  the  table  and  rocked  back  and  forth,  saying,  "Oh,  dear !  oh, 
dear !  my  doll  is  queen  no  longer.  The  girls  won't  be  envious 
of  me  any  more.  My  French  doll  is  a  perfect  wreck  and  that 
Katy  Jones  will  crow  over  me  as  before." 

Oh,  what  anguish  I  endured !  Louise  got  up  and  left  the 
room,  and  from  that  time  she  began  to  neglect  me.  She  flung 
me  into  the  corner  many  times  and  lots  of  times  I  have  stood  on 
my  head  for  hours.  Sometimes  my  poor  legs  were  left  all  un- 
covered. She  even  called  me  "Miss  Rags,"  and  "One-Armed 
Busted  Thing." 

Yes,  I  am  busted,  for  every  time  anyone  shakes  me  the  saw- 
dust flies  all  over,  and  when  I  walk  it  leaves  a  track  behind. 

Yesterday  Louise  had  a  fight  with  that  Jones  girl ;  and,  do  you 
know,  she  used  my  one  good  arm  to  hit  her  with,  and  when  the 
Jones  girl  hit  back  she  knocked  my  eye  out,  and  tried  to  grab  my 
hair.  Louise  grabbed  me  about  the  body  and  actually  used  my 
legs  as  a  whip  to  beat  the  Jones  girl,  and  when  she  had  finished 
I  had  only  one  leg,  as  you  see. 

Last  Wednesday  she  stuck  my  hair  full  of  burdocks  and  even 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48 


135 


made  a  chair  of  them  and  then  made  me  move  about  with  a  doll 
seated  in  the  chair  on  my  head,  and  because  I  didn't  move  to 
suit  her  she  slapped  me  and  banged  me  about. 

[Cries;   uses  good  arm  to  wipe  away  tears.] 

That  isn't  the  worst  of  it.  I  heard  the  nurse  tell  the  butler  that 
the  first  good  chance  she  got  she  was  going  to  throw  me  on  the 
ash-heap — me,  Ann  M arie,  once  the  joy  of  Paris  ! 

I've  been  so  unhappy  about  it  all  that  I  decided  that  if  my  end, 
my  real  end,  was  to  be  an  ash-heap,  that  I  must  leave  something 
behind  to  make  people  remember  me,  and  so  I  composed  a  little 
song.  I  know  everybody  will  love  it ;  and,  in  singing  it,  will 
always  think  of  me.  I'll  try  and  sing  it  for  you;  and.  if  my 
voice  is  a  little  quavering,  remember  that  a  one-armed  doll  hasn't 
the  strength  in  her  voice  that  a  two-armed  doll  would  have,  and 
then  a  doll  with  much  of  her  sawdust  gone  is  always  weak  in  the 
center,  and  with  only  one  leg  her  voice  lacks  support.  I'll  do  my 
best,  however;  and,  if  you  don't  care  to  listen,  you  can  go. 
Somehow,  I  think  you  will  love  it  and  will  always  keep  it,  and 
in  days  to  come  will  give  it  to  your  children. 

[Straightens  up,  smooths  dress,  shakes  head,  clears  throat,  and 
sings.] 

[Words  and  music  of  song  copyrighted,   1911,  by  Josephine  Merwin  Cook.] 
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WERNER'S  READINGS 


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I'm  such  a  broken  dolly, 

One  leg  and  arm  are  gone, 
My  sawdust,  too,  is  leaking, 

And  I  am  so  forlorn. 
My  pretty  waxen  features 

Were  melted  in  the  sun, 
My  bright  blue  eye  is  busted 

And  now  I  have  but  one, 

And  now  I  have  but  one. 

I  am  a  busted  dolly, 

Ann  Marie  is  my  name, 
And  if  I  do  not  sing  aright, 

I'm  surely  not  to  blame. 
All  children  are  so  very  cruel, 

Neglecting  dollies  so, 
With  sawdust  gone  and  broken  arm 

'Tis  such  an  awful  blow, 

'Tis  such  an  awful  blow. 

My  pretty  silken  dress  is 

All  torn  to  ribbons,  too, 
Louise  has  left  me  lying 

All  dirt,  and  wet  with  dew. 
I  can't  think  of  a  reason  why 

They  should  treat  me  so, 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  48  137 

I  never  did  a  single  thing 
To  merit  such  a  blow, 

To  merit  such  a  blow. 


SONG  OF  THE  DRUM. 


E.   L.  HITCHENS. 


[May  be  recited  either  with  or  by  a  drum  corps.  May  be  given  by  one  person, 
drum  corps  being  behind  scenes  and  playing  selections  indicated  in  text;  or  may  be 
recited  in  concert  by  drum  corps,  which  plays  selections  at  end  of  every  stanza;  or 
may  be   recited   by   different  members   of   corps,   each  person  taking  one   stanza.] 


OH,  there's  many  a  voice  that's  loud  and  clear, 
And  many  that's  low  and  sweet; 
But  there's  never  a  voice  that  strikes  the  ear 

Like  the  drum's  resounding  beat. 
For  it's  over  and  over  and  over  again 

But  one  repeated  note ; 
And  stern  and  grim  from  its  quiv'ring  rim, 
Comes  the  voice  of  its  parchment  throat. 

n  "h  ^i  WT 

The  mocking  gabble  of  men  goes  on 

As  they  clamor  in  halls  of  state, 
And  know  not  what  the  other  has  said, 

For  they  hear  with  ears  of  hate ; 
But  they're  quickly  opened,  those  muffled  ears, 

When  the  time  of  my  speech  has  come, 
For  they  understand  in  all  the  land 

What  means  the  voice  of  the  drum. 


138 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


So,  far  and  wide  the  whole  world  o'er, 

Where  the  Christian  nations  dwell, 
Where  men  to  men  good  brothers  are 

And  soundeth  the  loud  church  bell, 
My  voice  awaketh  the  echoes,  too, 

With  notes  severe  and  grum, 
And  war's  dread  wake  is  the  path  they  make 

Who  march  to  the  beat  of  the  drum. 


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I  heard  the  groans  on  Blenheim's  field, 

Where  Marlboro's  fight  was  won, 
And  o'er  the  plains  of  Abraham 

My  rattling  music  rung; 
And  on  the  heights  of  Bunker  Hill, 

Where  the  Continentals  died, 
I  led  the  way  at  break  of  day 

With  the  fifers  by  my  side. 


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AND   RECITATIONS   NO. 


139 


With  Wellington  at  Waterloo 

My  voice  was  in  the  van, 
They  drubbed  me  when  they  made  the  charge 

And  when  the  Frenchmen  ran ; 
And  when  Cornwallis's  sword  was  giv'n 

To  Washington  the  great, 
I  first  of  all  rolled  forth  the  call 

To  Freedom's  new  estate. 


O'er  mountain's  height  and  grassy  plain 

I've  sounded  on  the  fray, 
And  o'er  the  wounded  and  the  slain 

Tolled  forth  the  vanquished  day; 
At  eve,  on  banks  of  Southern  streams, 

In  Freedom's  later  strife, 
The  soldier  on  my  patient  head 

Wrote  letters  to  his  wife. 


I  heard  the  tales  of  valorous  deeds 
Wrought  by  his  comrades  brave, 

And  who  were  safe  and  who  had  found 
A  soldier's  honored  grave  ; 

And  words  of  love  would  swiftly  flow 
And  hope  and  hearty  cheer, 


140 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


But  swifter  the  flight  of  death  that  night- 
And  I  played  the  march  to  his  bier. 


Very  solemn. 


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When  grim  old  Sherman  from  the  flames 

Of  Piedmont's  valiant  town 
Swept  onward  to  the  sea  and  bore 

The  whole  rebellion  down, 
The  drum's  note  gave  to  martial  fame 

A  new  place  in  the  world, 
And  a  song  to  sing  with  a  freedman's  ring 

Where  the  starry  flag's  unfurled. 


Then  sing  to  the  fame  of  the  storied  drum 

That  lives  for  the  brave  alone, 
No  coward's  hand  can  awake  its  voice, 

For  his  heart  beats  not  with  its  own. 
They  only  win  who  like  the  drum, 

Do  one  thing  well  at  a  time, 
So  joy  have  we  for  the  years  to  be, 

And  hurrah  for  auld  lang  syne ! 


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AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  48 


141 


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1 


MAMMY'S    CHURNING   SONG. 


EDWARD  A.  OLDHAM. 


Scene  :  Old  Mammy,  standing  behind  churn,  looks  down  at  low 
chair  where  baby  is  supposed  to  be  sitting,  and  speaks  while 
working. 

SET  still,  honey,  let  ole  Mammy  tell  yer  'bout  de  churn, 
Wid  de  cream  en  clabber  dashin', 
En  de  buttermilk  er-splashin'. 
Dis  de  chune  hit  am  er-singin'  'fore  hit  'gin  ter  turn: 
Jiggery,  jiggery,  jiggery,  jum, 
Bum-bum-bum, 
But-tcr-come, 
Massa  gib  ole  nigger  some. 

[Must  be  played  and  sung  exactly  as  written  for  the  effects  of  churning.) 
Moderate). 


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142  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Jump  down,  honey,  en  fotch  me  clat  rag  fum  de  table,  fer  ter 
wipe  off  dis  hyah  led.  Tole  yer  so,  dat  milk  gwine  ter  splatter 
up  hyah  'reckly  !  Dar  now,  dat's  er  good  chile,  git  back  in  mer  lap 

Now  de  cream,  en  milk,  en  clabber's  churnin'  up  so  fas', 
Hyah  hit  splatterin'  en  er-splutterin', 
En  er-mixin',  en  er-mutterin', 
In  de  churn  en  roun'  de  dasher,  singin'  ter  de  las' ; 
Jiggery,  jiggery,  jiggery,  jum, 
Bum-bum-bum, 
But-ter-come, 
Massa  gib  ole  nigger  some. 

Uh-er!  Teck  kyah,  honey,  keep  dem  fingers  way  fum  dar! 
Butter  mos'  come  now :    set  still  jis'  er  leetle  w'ile  longer. 

Soon  de  lumps  ob  butter'll  be  er-floatin'  on  de  top — 
Now  de  ole  churn's  fa'rly  hummin', 
Tell  yet  wot,  de  butter  comin' — 
Done  come !    Mammy's  arm  so  ti-yerd,  now  she's  gwine  ter  stop. 
Jiggery,  jiggery,  jiggery,  jum, 
Bum-bum-bum, 
But-ter-come, 
Mammy'll  gib  de  baby  some. 

Dar  now !  {removing  top  and  giving  dasher  a  circular  motion] 
jis'  peep  in  dar  en  see  de  lumps  ob  yaller  butter  er-huddlin'  ter- 
gedder.  Now  run  fotch  yer  leetle  blue  mug,  en  Mammy'll  gib 
yer  some  nice  sweet  buttermilk  right  outen  dis  hyah  churn. 


SONG  OF  THE  CHURN. 


I    HEAR  the  song  of  the  churn, 
In  its  merriest  spattering  mood, 
When,  at  every  walloping  turn, 

It  pounds  out  the  world's  best  food ; 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.  48 


143 


Ker  chug — chug — chug — 

In  steady  and  measured  time, 
At  the  handle  I  cheerfully  tug, 

And  list  to  its  musical  rhyme. 

[Last  half  of  first,  second,  fourth  and  fifth  stanzas.] 

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In  the  pastures  fragrant  with  dew, 

Where  the  daisies  and  buttercups  grow, 
Near  the  grove  where  the  wood-doves  coo, 

And  the  barn-swallows  flit  to  and  fro, 
Hear  the  moo — 00 — 00  ; 

'Tis  Snowdrop's  cheerful  reply 
To  the  whistling  cow-boy  sauntering  through 

The  clover  blossoms  knee-high. 

Co  boss — co — co — 

The  world  is  going  astray, 
When  it  says  the  blue-grass  butter  may  go, 

And  to  Oleo's  smoothness  give  way; 
The  city-bred  man  may  eat 

The  butter  that  never  was  churned — 
May  swallow  the  fraud  and  the  cheat 

From  tallow  and  lard  out-turned. 


But  the  south  wind's  glowing  kiss 

Hath  touched  the  hills  and  the  plains, 

Where  the  genuine  article,  like  this, 

Was  evolved  by  God's  sunshine  and  rains, 


144 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


Ker  chug — chug — chug  — 

The  world  is  made  better  by  me, 

Foi  the  more  men  quaff  at  the  buttermilk  jug 
The  less  of  the  doctor  they'll  see. 


Co  boss — co — co — 

The  milkmaid,  with  pail,  at  the  gate, 
Is  waiting  to  catch  the  rich  flow 

From  Raindrop,  and  Dewdrop  and  Mate; 
Ting-a-ling — ling — ling — 

There's  Thankful,  and  Mossrose  and  Grade; 
Easter  Morning,  Priscilla  and  Kring 

Stopping  to  lick  the  kind  hand  of  the  maid. 


Ifoderato, 


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[Last  half  of  fifth  stanza.] 

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So  boss — so — so — 

The  meek-eyed  beauties  stop 
At  the  sound  of  the  voice  that  they  know, 

And  the  richest  of  nectar  yield  up. 
Ker  chug — chug — chug — 

All  things  to  labor  succumb ; 
At  the  handle  I  no  longer  tug — 

The  golden  butter  has  come. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.  48 
POLLY'S   GUITAR. 


145 


C.  F.  LESTER. 


[Reciter  enters    playing    guitar  as  below,  continuing    during 
reciting  of  first  stanza.] 


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Pling- 


Plang — 

Plung — 
Airily  humming, 
Lazily  drumming, 

Ringing  afar; 
Hark  to  the  strumming 

Of  Polly's  guitar ! 

[Any  kind  of  notes  for  following  four  lines.] 

First  an  aimless  chord  or  two — 

Kling — Klang ! 
With  dewdrop  notes  a-flashing  through — ■ 

Plinkety — plunk — plank — plink  ! 
Then,  slow,  swinging  and  swaying  now, 
High,  low,  gliding  and  straying  now, 

One-two-three,  one-two-three, 


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146 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


Waltzes  she's  playing  now; 
Hear  the  measure  ring — 

Plung — plang — pling, 
Plunkety — pling — plang — plung ! 

[Any  kind  of  notes  for  follozving  four  lines.] 
Now  her  fingers  stray  around — 

B-r-rang — B-r-rung ! 
Here  and  there  a  lonesome  sound — 
.   .   .  Bung! 

[Begin  follozving  music  and  play  to  end  of  stanza.] 
Polka. 


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All  at  once  with  sudden  glee, 

Skip !     Flip !     Daintily, 

Poising  now  like  a  bird  alight, 

Now  with  a  rush  like  a  rocket's  flight — 

Pinkety — pank — pank !    chiming  sweet — 

Doesn't  a  polka  start  your  feet? 

[Begin  follozving  music  and  play  until  "croon"  end  of  second 
stanza  below. \ 


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Now  sweet,  complaining  minor  chords, 

Like  tear-dimmed  smiles, 

With  subtle  wiles 
Hint  of  a  story  without  words. 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   48  147 

Klang,  Kling, 

They  rise,  and  fall,  and  sing, 

Till,  like  the  murmurings  of  bees 

Upon  the  breeze  of  June, 
Amid  the  harmony  there  stirs 

The  wraith  of  some  old  tune, 
And  the  strings  grow  still  to  listen 

To  its  sweet,  persuasive  croon. 

[Recite  following  stanza  without  music.'] 
So,  ever  ringing, 

Sighing  and  singing, 

Melody  flinging,  anear  and  afar, 
Thus  with  its  wiling 
Dull  Time  beguiling — 

Ah,  what  a  blessing  is  Polly's  guitar ! 

[Exit  by  playing  minor  chords,  or  last  line  of  music  given  above.] 


OLD    GUITAR. 


SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK 


THE  sweetest  strains  that  ever 
My  raptured  ears  have  heard- 
I  know  that  memory  never 
Can  lose  a  single  word — 
Was  on  a  balmy  evening 

That  crowned  a  summer  day, 
When  Katie  tuned  the  old  guitar 
And  sang  my  heart  away. 

The  happy  starlight  beaming 
Upon  her  lily  throat 


148 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


Set  wistful  fancy  dreaming 
With  every  haunting  note. 


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It  was  no  idle  ballad, 

No  senseless  modern  lay; 

With  "Bonnie  Annie  Laurie,"  lo 
She  sang  my  heart  away. 


And  when  the  song  was  over 

And  Katie  breathed  a  sigh, 
She,  too,  could  boast  a  lover 

Would  lay  him  down  and  die. 
'Twas  then  I  told  my  secret, 

And  still  I  bless  the  day 
When  Katie  tuned  the  old  guitar 

And  sang  my  heart  away. 


HUSH-A-BY  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  BABY. 


MRS.  CHARLES  GAY. 


[Woman  stands  as  if  gazing  down  on  child  on  bed,  or  as  if  holding  child  in 
arms.  She  sings  softly,  without  rocking  child,  first  stanza;  then  stops  abruptly  and, 
gazing  down  at  child,  recites  rest  of  poem.] 


"Rock-a-by,  baby,  on  the  tree-top! 
When  the  wind  bloius  the  cradle  zvill  rock; 
When  the  bough  breaks  the  cradle  zvill  fall, 
Down  zvill  come  baby,  cradle  and  all." 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.  48 


149 


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Dear  little  babykin,  born  just  too  late, 
Lullabies  now  have  been  wiped  off  the  slate. 
Up-to-date  babies  never  are  rocked, 
And  if  I  say  "lullaby"  mother  is  shocked. 


Your  nutriment's  measured,  the  progress  you've  made 
Is  jotted  down  daily  as  soon  as  you're  weighed ; 
Your  food's  predigested ;    you've  nothing  to  do 
But  sleep  and  grow  fat — not  even  to  coo. 


150 


WERNER'S  READINGS' 


You'll  never  hear  legends  of  goblin  and  ghost, 

Of  Jack  and  the  Giant,  Queen  Mab  and  her  host ; 

You'll  never  learn  how  to  spell  "c-a-t" — "cat," 

But  will  read  at  first  sight,  and  from  pictures  at  that. 

You're  an  up-to-date  baby !    Maybe  it  is  best 
To  forego  the  cradle,  the  song  and  the  rest; 
But  it  seems  to  me,  baby,  you'll  miss  quite  a  lot 
Of  the  romance  of  life  that  we  old  fogies  got. 


HONEY-BUG   BABY. 


EMMA  C.  DULANEY. 


'Rock-a-by,  baby,  on  the  tree-top! 
When  the  zvind  blows  the  cradle  will  rock; 
When  the  bough  breaks  the  cradle  will  fall, 
Down  will  come  baby,  cradle  and  all." 


[Music  on  page  149.] 


"Rock-a-by,  baby,  the  cradle  is  green; 
Father's  a  nobleman,  Mother's  a  queen, 
Sister's  the  lady  that  wears  a  gold  ring, 
And  baby's  the  loveliest  child  ever  seen." 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.  48 


151 


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Honey-Bug,  yo'  ain'  done  nufhn  dis  day 
But  git  inter  mischief  an'  rawmp  an'  play 
Twel  yo's  jes'  tiahd  out — po;  HT  chile ! 
Come  heah;  le'  Mammy  res'  yo'  erwhile. 
Yo's  so  sleepy,  too.     Dat's  raight — nussle  down,  • 
Fuh  yo's  gwineter  trabble  ter  Shut-Eye  Town. 
De  road  dah's  stret,  an'  whilse  we  goes  erlong 
Mammy's  gwineter  sing  fuh  yo'  dis  liT  song: — > 

'Rock-er-by,  baby.    Hi-oh,  rock-er-by ! 
Yander  hangs  er  cradle  in  de  tree  high ; 
Wen  de  Souf  win'  its  wahm  breff  'gins  ter  blow 
Twel  staht  it  rockin',  easy-lak  an'  slow. 
Rock-er-by,  baby.     Hi-oh,  rock-er-by  ! 
De  cradle's  er-swingin'  yander  on  high ; 
No  hahm'll  come  ter  yo'  w'en  de  Souf  breeze 
Chases  de  sunbeams  er-roun'  thoo  de  trees. 


'Rock-er-by,  baby.      Hi-oh,  rock-er-by  ! 
De  cradle's  er-hangin'  'tween  yearf  an'  sky; 
De  Norf  win's  col'  breff'll  toss  it  er-roun' 
Twel  de  bough  bre'ks  off  an'  falls  ter  de  groun\ 


152  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Rock-er-by,  baby.    Hi-oh,  rock-er-by ! 
Don'  yo'  be  'feared,  fuh  ole  Mammy  is  nigh; 
Wen  de  bough  bre'ks  undahneaf  it  she'll  be 
Ter  ketch  baby  raight  in  huh  ap'on,  yo'  see. 

"Rock-er-by,  baby.     Hi-oh,  rock-er-by ! 
Off,  now,  ter  Shut-Eye  Town  yo's  gwineter  fly. 
Yuh  Pappy 's  de  king  dah,  an'  yuh  Ma's  queen, 
An'  baby's  de  b'u'f'les'  chile  evah  seen. 
Rock-er-by,  baby.     Hi-oh,  rock-er-by ! 
Nuffin  kin  hahm  yo'  whilse  Mammy  is  nigh. 
She'll  rock  yo'  sof'ly,  an'  res'  yo'  erwhile, 
Fuh  yo's  played  twel  yo's  tiahd  out — po'  HT  chile!" 

[Repeat  lullaby.] 


ROCK-A-BY    BABIES. 


Action  Song  for  Three  Divisions  of  Children. 


[On  stage  are  three  semicircles  of  small  rocking-chairs.  First  division  enter  carry- 
ing branches  of  nuts  (branches  held  as  if  they  were  dolls  or  children),  seat  themselves 
in  last  row  of  rockers,  and  act  out  song,  sung  by  themselves  or  by  invisible  chorus.] 


Rock-a-by,  babies,  on  the  tree-top; 
When  the  wind  blows,  the  cradles  will  rock, 
When  the  stems  break,  the  cradles  will  fall — 
Down  come  rock-a-by  babies  and  all. 

[Music  on  page  149.] 

Hush-a-by,  hush-a-by,  babies  grow; 

Hush-a-by,  hush-a-by,  nuts,  you  know, 

Will  fall  to  the  ground, 

And  then  will  be  found 

By  children  and  squirrels  all  round. 

[Music  on  pages  150-51.] 

[Second  division  enter  carrying  large  branches  having  cocoons  (branches  held  as 
if  they  were  children),  seat  themselves  in  second  row  of  rockers,  and  act  out  song, 
sung  by  themselves  or   by  invisible   chorus.] 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48  153 

Rock-a-by,  babies,  all  winter  long, 
Wrapped  in  cradles  of  silk,  soft  and  strong, 
Waiting  for  sunlight,  warm  and  bright, 
To  call  these  little  children  to  light. 

Hush-a-by,  hush-a-by,  wrapped  soft  and  strong, 
Hush-a-by,  hush-a-by,  all  winter  long; 
Sleep,  little  babies,  sleep  until  spring, 
Then  spread  out  each  bright  and  shining  wing. 

[Third  division  enter  carrying  dolls  (held  as  if  children  were  hushing  dolls  to 
sleep),  seat  themselves  in  front  row  of  rockers,  and  act  out  song,  sung  hy  themselves 
or  by  invisible  chorus.] 

Rock-a-by,  baby,  in  the  cradle  here  ; 
Rock-a-by,  baby,  sweet  and  dear. 
Father  is  working  all  day  long 
To  make  baby's  home  so  snug  and  strong. 

Hush-a-by,  hush-a-by,  mother  is  near; 
Hush-a-by,  hush-a-by,  never  fear. 
Wink-eye  and  blink-eye  are  tired,  you  know; 
Close  them  up  tight  and  to  dreamland  go. 

[After  last  stanza  has  been  sung,  music  is  played  again,  all  children  rocking  their 
chairs  and  humming  the  words,  feigning  sleep  at  the  last.] 

[Curtain;  or  children  may  waken  suddenly,  look  at  babies,  rise,  rocking  babies  in 
their  arms  and  hushing  them,  as  they  slowly  go  off  stage.] 


O    ROCK-A-BY,    DEARS. 


ANNA  SANFORD  THOMPSON. 


[Reciter  enters,  goes  to  stage  center,   smiles,  sits  in   rocker,  and  rocks  with  foot  sup- 
posed  cradle   while   she   sings   first   stanza.] 


"Rock-a-by,  baby,  on  the  tree-top! 
When  the  zvind  blozvs  the  cradle  will  rock; 
When  the  bough  breaks  the  cradle  zvill  fall, 
Down  comes  Rock-a-by  baby  and  all" 

[Music  on  page  149.] 

[Reciter  stops  rocking  movement,  or  rocks  cradle  very  slowly,  while  reciting  next  three 

stanzas.] 


154  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Rock-a-by  babies  in  cradle  so  high,, 
Swinging  and  rocking  so  near  to  the  sky, 
Rock-a-by  babies  in  cradle  so  queer, 
Greenish  and  prickly  and  shaped  like  a  sphere. 

Three  little  brothers  all  tucked  in  so  tight, 
Covered  so  closely  to  keep  out  the  light. 
Three  little  brothers  so  patiently  wait — • 
Jack  Frost  will  call  them  before  'tis  too  late. 

Dear  little  fellows,  they're  growing  so  stout, 
Surely  they're  big  enough  now  to  come  out. 
Dear  little  fellows,  already  they're  dressed; 
Shiny  brown  suits  are  the  ones  they  like  best. 

[Music  is  again  played;    reciter  sings  last  stanza,  rocking  cradle  faster  and  faster,  sud- 
denly slowing  up  on  last  word,  then  rises  softly  and  carefully  goes  off  stage.] 

"Rock-a-by  babies,  O  Rock-a-by,  dears, 
There'll  be  no  more  rocking  when  Jack  Frost  appears. 
Cradles  will  open,  and  cradles  may  fall- 
Down  come  the  Rock-a-by  babies  and  all!" 

[Music  on  pages  150-51.] 


MIKE,  STREET  FIDDLER. 


WILLIAM  B.  HAMILTON. 


[When  reciter  reaches  "began  to  play,"  in  fourth  paragraph,  violin  music  of 
"Just  as  I  am"  is  played  by  invisible  player.  Reciter  listens  to  music,  then  softlj 
speaks  name  of  hymn.  When  music  ceases,  reciter  continues  to  "I  will  sing  of  mj 
Redeemer."  As  these  words  are  reached,  violin  music  is  again  heard.  Recite] 
listens  a  moment,  then  softly  speaks  name  of  hymn.  Violinist  plays  either  phrase  here 
given  or  whole  stanza  of  hymn,  then  changes  into  next  hymn.  Reciter  listens  to 
new  tune  and  then  softly  speaks  "There  is  a  happy  land."  Violinist  continues  until 
end  of  phrase  or  stanza  and  then  changes  into  "I  think  when  I  read  that  sweet  storv 
of  old."  Reciter  listens  as  if  entranced,  then  softly  speaks  name  of  hymn.  When  music 
stops,  reciter  continues  to  "Rock  of  Ages."  Reciter  listens,  then  softly  speaks  name 
of  hymn.     When  music  stops,  reciter  proceeds  to  end  of  recitation.] 


"'  I  ^HERE'S  that  boy  again."    I  looked  up  from  my  desk  with 

-1        annoyance,  for  I  was  busy,  the  day  was  hot,  and  "Mike" 

had  followed  me  like  a  shadow  ever  since  I  first  saw  him  at  the 

mission  school,  and  I  had  said,  "Come  and  see  me  some  time, 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48 


155 


Mike."  Here  he  was  again  for  the  tenth  time,  with  his  beloved 
violin,  and  his  first  question  was,  "Say,  Meestar,  I  play  for  you?" 

His  full  name  was  Michael  Angelo ;  he  lived  next  to  the 
mission,  in  a  tumble-down  house,  with  a  father  who  beat  him 
until  his  little  body  was  covered  with  bruises.  Pointing  to  his 
forehead,  where  was  the  trace  of  a  great  welt,  he  explained, 
"Yesterday,  all  rain ;    no  money ;   the  father,  he  beat  me ;    see  ?" 

Thinking  of  this,  and  of  the  little  fellow's  loneliness  and 
misery,  I  smiled  and  said,  "Well,  Mike,  what  are  you  going  to 
play  to-day?" 

His  olive-tinted  skin  took  on  a  delicate  flush.  The  battered 
instrument  was  lifted  lovingly  to  his  chin  and  he  began  to  play. 

I  expected  to  hear  "Annie  Rooney,"  "The  Babies  in  our  Block," 
and  other  similar  airs,  but  I  suddenly  changed  my  position,  and 
was  listening  eagerly.     Yes,  Mike  was  playing  "Just  as  I  am," 

JUST   AS  I  AM. 


that  we  sang  in  the  evening  meeting.  He  put  such  a  wail  of 
penitence  into  it,  such  an  undertone  of  joy,  which  told  of  for- 
giveness, that  I  do  not  wonder  that  young  Henderson,  the  law- 
yer's clerk  across  the  hall,  left  his  desk,  and  stood  at  the  door; 
no  wonder  bluff  old  Smith  of  the  surveyor's  office  at  the  other 
end  of  the  hall,  came  up,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  to  see  where  that 
"noise  came  from,"  and  stopped  on  the  threshold,  with  the  ques- 
tion still  between  his  teeth. 

And  Mike  played  "I  will  sing  of  my  Redeemer,"  "There  is  a 
happy  land,"  "I  think  when  I  read  that  sweet  story  of  old,"  and 
other  familiar  hymns.  He  did  not  seem  to 'notice  the  crowd,  he 
was  so  intent  on  giving  pleasure,  so  glad  that  his  little  surprise 
was  appreciated. 


156 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


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AND   RECITATIONS   NO. 


157 


"Mike,"  said  Mr.  Smith,  who  had  at  last  found  his  voice,  "can 
you  play  that  old  hymn  my  mother  used  to  sing,  'Rock  of  Ages?' 
She  used  to  take  a  lot  of  comfort  singing  that  piece  in  her  thin, 
cracked  voice.  She  believed  it  like  gospel  truth ;  I  wish  I  could," 
and  he  wiped  mist  from  his  eyes. 

Mike  didn't  know  the  name ;  but  I  hummed  it,  and  almost 
instantly  my  voice  was  drowned  in  the  tones  of  his  violin,  which 
had  caught  the  strains  of  the  grand  old  hymn,  and  threw  a  pray- 
erful earnestness  into  it  that  was  almost  divine. 

ROCK  OF  AGES. 


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"You  did  that  first-class,  Mike,"  was  the  commendation  of  Mr. 
Smith,  as  he  handed  him  a  coin  which  the  boy  for  once  seemed 
loath  to  take.  He  was  not  playing  for  money  now ;  he  was  play- 
ing because  he  loved  the  hymns  he  had  learned. 

The  next  time  I  saw  Mike  was  at  the  mission  picnic,  as  he 
stood  beside  the  organ,  playing  that  blessed  violin,  his  tattered 
straw  hat,  patched  pants,  and  bare  feet  making  a  scene  unique 
as  well  as  pathetic. 

H=  :fc  >K  ^  +  + 

It  was  August,  and  the  dog-days  were  upon  us.  I  had  come 
back  to  my  office,  preparatory  to  closing,  when  I  heard  the  "ding- 
ding-dong"  of  the  ambulance. 

I  followed  with  the  rest,  and,  seeing  a  violin  stained  with  blood, 
and  crushed  all  out  of  shape,  suspicion  deepened  into  fear.  Yes, 
they  were  lifting  the  little  fellow,  crushed  as  badly  as  his  instru- 
ment and  limp  as  a  rag,  into  the  wagon. 


158 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


The  surgeon  shook  his  head  when  I  asked  him  what  Mike's 
chances  were.  In  the  night,  when  the  ward  was  quiet,  the  nurse 
and  I  were  startled  by  a  weak  voice,  saying,  "Say,  Meestar,  I 
play  for  you?"  In  delirium,  Mike  imagined  himself  at  the 
office.    He  tried  to  lift  his  right  hand,  as  if  he  would  take  his  bow. 

"What  can  you  play,  Mike?" 

"Me  play  'Jesus,  Lover  of  my  soul,'  "  and  he  sank  into  a  stupor 
from  which  he  never  awoke. 


HAYMAKER'S  SONG. 


ALFRED  AUSTIN. 


[When  reciter  speaks  "Drink,  lads,  drink,"  or  "Clink,  jugs,  clink,"  music  is  played  as 

background.] 


HERE'S  to  him  that  grows  it, 
Drink,  lads,  drink! 
That  lays  it  in  and  mows  it, 

Clink,  jugs,  clink ! 
To  him  that  mows  and  makes  it, 
That  scatters  it  and  shakes  it, 
That  turns,  and  teds,  and  rakes  it, 
Clink,  jugs,  clink ! 
Lively. 


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AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  48 


159 


Now  here's  to  him  that  stacks  it, 

Drink,  lads,  drink ! 
That  threshes  and  that  tacks  it, 

Clink,  jugs,  clink! 
That  cuts  it  out  for  eating, 
When  new-born  lambs  are  bleating; 
And  the  slate-blue  clouds  are  sleeting, 

Drink,  lads,  drink ! 

And  here's  to  thane  and  yoeman, 

Drink,  lads,  drink ! 
To  horseman  and  to  bowman, 

Clink,  jugs,  clink ! 
To  lofty  and  to  lowman, 
Who  bears  a  grudge  to  no  man, 
But  flinches   from  no   foeman, 

Drink,   lads,  drink ! 


THE  CLOCK  SPEAKS. 


PAUL  WEST. 


[Music    is    played    every    time    "Tick-tock!    Tick-tock!"    is    recited,    and    only    during 
reciting  of  these  words.] 


T 


ICK-TOCK !     Tick-tock ! 

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160  WERNER'S  READINGS 

This  is  going  to  be  an  eventful  evening.  I  feel  it  in  every 
wheel  and  spring  in  my  works. 

She  feels  it,  too.  See  how  ill  at  ease  she  is !  How  she  listens 
to  every  sound  without !  How  nervously  she  looks  at  me  every 
two  minutes ! 

Ah,  pretty  one,  I  know  your  secret! 

Tick-tock !     Tick-tock ! 

They  are  coming,  to-night,  and  you  feel,  you  know,  that  before 
midnight  you  will  have  given  your  heart  and  hand  to  one  of 
them.     But  to  which  one? 

I  think  I  know.  I  am  sure  I  know,  even  better  than  you,  the 
one  you  prefer  in  your  inmost  heart. 

He  is  poor;  but  the  other  night,  when  I  had  run  down,  he 
wound  me  and  set  me  right.- 

The  other  one  is  rich;  but  last  week,  as  he  waited  for  you  to 
dress  for  the  theater  he  looked  at  me  and  swore,  because  you 
were  late.    A  man  who  will  swear  at  a  clock! 

Tick-tock !     Tick-tock ! 

There  goes  the  bell ! 

Which  do  you  suppose  it  is  ? 

Oh,  my  dear,  we  are  excited,  you  and  I !  Take  one  more  glance 
at  your  lovely  self  in  the  mirror,  though  goodness  knows  you  are 
always  beautiful. 

Tick-tock !     Tick-tock ! 

Your  novel,  girl !  Your  novel !  That's  it  Don't  let  him  know 
you  are  nervous.     Now,  rise  to  meet  him. 

Tick-tock !     Tick-tock ! 

It's  the  poor  one !    But  how  handsome  !    Such  a  man ! 

And  flowers !  Well,  well !  This  does  look  well.  Bride's  roses, 
too.     Here,  don't — 

Whew !  I  thought  she  was  going  to  leave  them  right  before 
me  on  the  mantel !    Then  I  couldn't  have  seen  a  thing. 

Tick-tock ! '    Tick-tock ! 

That's  it.  Two  of  the  largest  roses  in  your  belt.  That  will 
encourage  him. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48  161 

Oh,  I  would  not  give  an  Ingersoll  watch  for  the  rich  one's 
chances  now,  if  all  goes  right ! 
Tick-tock !     Tick-tock ! 
Tick-tock !     Tick-tock ! 

Still  the  weather,  and  the  theater,  and  the  war;  and  the  war, 
and  the  theater,  and  the  weather. 

This  will  never  do!     Half  an  hour  gone,  thirty  of  the  most 
precious  minutes  in  your  lives,  and  you  are  no  nearer — 
Tick-tock !     Tick-tock ! 

Shades  of  Galileo !  For  what  hour  did  the  other,  the  rich  one, 
make  to-night's  engagement?  Wasn't  it  half-past  eight?  Tt 
was ! 

Ah,  no  wonder,  pretty  one,  you  start  as  you  recall  that,  and 
look  at  me ! 

I  cannot  lie  for  you.    It  is  eight-fifteen.    And  you  have  led  him 
on  not  one  single  whit ! 
Tick-tock !     Tick-tock ! 

Can  you  not  perceive  how  bashful  he  is?  Can  you  not  divine, 
by  the  glances  he  casts  at  you,  by  his  sighs,  his  awkwardness,  how 
the  land  lies? 

Tick-tock !     Tick-tock ! 

You  have  only  thirteen  minutes,  and  then  the  other  man  will 
be  here,  and  this  one  will  have  to  go.  And  he  will  go  broken- 
hearted. 

Then, the  other  one?    Ah,  he  is  businesslike,  and  cold-blooded. 
And  he  will  ask  you  and  you  will  say  ''yes." 
Twelve  minutes ! 

He  is  looking  at  you,  and  clearing  his  throat,  to  speak. 
Now  help  him.    Look  down  at  your  roses,  and  if  you  can  bring 
a  little  blush — 

Oh,  admirable !  Admirable !  You  have  given  him  courage, 
for  you  have  shown  him  that  you  know. 

Nine  minutes ! 
Oh,  my  precious  pair,  you  must  hurry. 


162  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Tick — tock!  Ti-i-ick — to-o-o-ock!  I  will  try  to  run  slowly, 
even  at  the  cost  of  my  reputation. 

Ti-i-i-ick ! 

He  speaks  !     He  says  your  name  ! 

Look  up !     But  not  at  him ;   that  will  frighten  him. 

Say  "Yes?"  and  incline  yourself  a  little  toward  him,  as  though 
to  show  your  interest. 

Ti-i-i-ick  To-o-o-o-ock ! 

Oh,  you  blundering  man,  do  not  look  at  me.  I  am  doing  my 
best  for  you,  can't  you  see? 

"How  strange  that  clock  sounds !     As  though — " 

Ah,  my  girl,  that  was  good. 

He  will  finish  the  sentence! 

"As  though  it  wished  to  speak,  almost.  Ah,  Elsa,  I  am  like 
that  clock,  that  would  speak,  but  cannot !     Elsa !     Elsa !" 

Tick-tock !     Tick-tock !     Ticka-ticka-tocka-ticka-tock ! 

Hooray ! 

It  is  done ! 

But  I  must  not  look !    I  must  cover  my  face  with  my  hands  ! 


CORN-STALK   FIDDLE. 


PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR. 


WHEN  the  corn's  all  cut  and  the  bright  stalks  Shine 
Like  the  burnished  spears  of  a  field  of  gold; 
When  the  field-mice  rich  on  the  nubbins  dine, 

And  the  frost  comes  white  and  the  wind  blows  cold; 
Then  it's  heigho,  fellows ;  and  hi-diddle-diddle, 
For  the  time  is  ripe  for  the  corn-stalk  fiddle. 

And  you  take  a  stalk  that  is  straight  and  long, 
With  an  expert  eye  to  its  worthy  points,. 
And  you  think  of  the  bubbling  strains  of  song 
That  are  bound  between  its  pithy  joints — ■ 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48 


163 


Then  you  cut  out  strings,  with  a  bridge  in  the  middle, 
With  a  corn-stalk  bow  for  a  corn-stalk  fiddle. 

Then  the  strains  that  grow  as  you  draw  the  bow 
O'er  the  yielding  strings  with  a  practised  hand! 

And  the  music's  flow  never  loud  but  low 
Is  the  concert  note  of  a  fairy  band. 

Oh,  your  dainty  songs  are  a  misty  riddle 

To  the  simple  sweets  of  the  corn-stalk  fiddle. 

When  the  eve  comes  on,  and  our  work  is  done, 

And  the  sun  drops  down  with  a  tender  glance, 
With  their  hearts  all  prime  for  the  harmless  fun, 

Come  the  neighbor  girls  for  the  evening's  dance, 
And  they  wait  for  the  well-known  twist  and  twiddle- 
More  time  than  tune — from  the  corn-stalk  fiddle. 

Then  brother  Jabez  takes  the  bow, 

While  Ned  stands  off  with  Susan  Bland ; 

Then  Henry  stops  by  Milly  Snow, 
And  John  takes  Nellie  Jones's  hand, 

While  I  pair  off  with  Mandy  Biddle, 


Violin. 


Piano. 


And  scrape,   scrape,   scrape,   goes  the  cornstalk  fiddle. 
Allegro,    con  sord. 

-n p — M- 


164 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


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AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48  165 

dv  and     bal  -  ance  down  the     aisle,"  To  the 


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WERNER'S  READINGS 


To  the        screech  and  scrape  of     a     corn  -  stalk  fid-die. 


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OLD  MOTHER  HUBBARD  SERMON. 


Speaker  Present:    Minister. 

Congregation  :  Supposed  to  be  Present. 

Scene  :    Country  church  interior.   Minister  stands  behind  pulpit 
carefully  turning  pages  of  manuscript.     Organ  music. 


Andante  religioso. 

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AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48 


167 


[Organ  stops ;  church  is  still  a  moment.     Minister  steps  from 
behind  pulpit,  gases  pleasantly  at  audience,  and  begins:] 

Brethren  and  Sisters  :    To-day  we  have  chosen  for  our  text : 

[Nods  toward  organ,  which  begins  and  continues  as  musical 
background  until  end  of  text  {given  in  music  below).] 


mf  Moderate. 


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Old    Moth  -  er     Hub    -    bard  went       to       the       cup-board  To 


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WERNER'S  READINGS 


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when     she      got     there,         the      cup    -    board     was    bare,     And 


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[Whenever  any  part  of  text  is  mentioned  in  sermon,  the  music 
of  the  particular  words  is  played  as  background  and  is  to  stop 
abruptly  with  the  last  word  of  text  quotation.] 

These  beautiful  words,  dear  friends,  carry  with  them  a  solemn 
lesson.  I  propose  to  analyze  their  meaning  and  to  apply  it,  lofty 
as  it  may  be,  to  our  every-day  life. 

"Old   Mother   Hubbard,   she    went   to    the    cupboard 
To   get  her  poor  dog  a  bone." 

\_Music  during  speaking  of  these  two  lines.'] 

Mother  Hubbard,  you  see,  was  old;  there  being  no  mention  of 
others,  we  may  presume  she  was  alone ;  a  widow — a  friendless, 
old,  solitary  widow.  Yet,  did  she  despair?  Did  she  sit  down 
and  weep,  or  read  a  novel,  or  wring  her  hands  ?  No !  she  went  to 
the  cupboard.    And  here  observe  that  she  went  to  the  cupboard. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48  169 

She  did  not  hop,  or  skip,  or  run,  or  jump,  or  use  any  other  peri- 
patetic artifice;  she  solely  and  merely  went  to  the  cupboard. 

We  have  seen  that  she  was  old  and  lonely,  and  we  now  further 
see  that  she  was  poor.  For,  mark,  the  words  are  "the  cupboard." 
Not  "one  of  the  cupboards,"  or  the  "right-hand  cupboard,"  or 
the  "left-hand  cupboard,"  or  the  one  above,  or  the  one  below,  or 
the  one  under  the  floor;  but  just  the  cupboard — the  one  humble 
little  cupboard  the  poor  widow  possessed.  And  why  did  she  go  to 
the  cupboard  ?  Was  it  to  bring  forth  golden  goblets,  or  glittering, 
precious  stones,  or  costly  apparel,  or  feasts,  or  any  other  at- 
tributes of  wealth?  It  zvas  to  get  her  poor  dog  a  bone!  Xot  only 
was  the  widow  poor,  but  her  dog,  the  sole  prop  of  her  age,  was 
poor  too.  We  can  imagine  the  scene.  The  poor  dog  crouching 
in  the  corner,  looking  wistfully  at  the  solitary  cupboard,  and  the 
widow  going  to  that  cupboard — in  hope,  in  expectation,  maybe — 

"But    when    she    got    there    the    cupboard    was    bare, 
And  so  the  poor  dog  had  none." 

[Music  played  as  background.] 

"When  she  got  there !"  You  see,  dear  .brethren,  what  per- 
severance is.  You  see  the  beauty  of  persistence  in  doing  right. 
She  got  there.  There  were  no  turnings  and  twistings ;  no  slip- 
pings  and  slidings,  no  leaning  to  the  right,  or  faltering  to  the 
left.    With  glorious  simplicity  we  are  told  she  got  there. 

And  how  was  her  noble  effort  rewarded  ? 

"The  cupboard  was  bare !"  It  was  bare !  There  were  to  be 
found  neither  oranges,  nor  cheese-cake,  nor  penny  buns,  nor 
gingerbread,  nor  crackers,  nor  nuts,  nor  lucifer-matches,  nor  soft- 
shell  crabs.  The  cupboard  was  bare !  There  was  but  one,  only 
one  solitary  cupboard  in  the  whole  of  that  cottage,  and  that  one — 
the  sole  hope  of  the  widow,  and  the  glorious  loadstar  of  the  poor 
dog — was  bare !  Had  there  been  a  leg  of  mutton,  a  turkey,  a 
live  lobster,  even  a  brick  of  ice  cream,  the  case  would  have  been 
different,  the  incident  would  have  been  otherwise.  But  it  was 
bare,  my  brethren,  bare  as  a  bald  head,  bare  as  an  infant  born 
without  a  single  hair. 


170  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Many  of  you  will  probably  say,  with  all  the  pride  of  wordly 
sophistry,  "The  widow,  no  doubt,  went  out  and  bought  a  dog- 
biscuit."  Ah,  no !  Far  removed  from  these  earthly  ideas,  these 
mundane  desires,  poor  Mother  Hubbard,  the  widow,  whom  many 
thoughtless  worldings  would  despise,  in  that  she  owned  only  one 
cupboard,  perceived — or,  I  might  even  say,  saw — at  once  the 
relentless  logic  of  the  situation,  and  yielded  to  it  with  all  the 
heroism  of  that  nature  which  had  enabled  her,  without  deviation, 
to  reach  the  barren  cupboard.  She  did  not  attempt,  like  the  stiff- 
necked  scoffers  of  this  generation,  to  war  against  the  inevitable; 
she  did  not  try,  like  the  so-called  men  of  science,  to  explain  what 
she  did  not  understand.  She  said  nothing.  "The  poor  dog  had 
none !"  And  then  at  this  point  our  information  ceases. 

Who  would  dare  to  pierce  the  veil  that  shrouds  the  ulterior 
fate  of  Old  Mother  Hubbard,  the  poor  dog,  the  cupboard,  or  the 
bone  that  was  not  there?  Must  we  imagine  her  still  standing  at 
the  open  cupboard-door;  depict  to  ourselves  the  dog  still  drop- 
ping his  disappointed  tail  upon  the  floor,  the  sought-for  bone 
still  remaining  somewhere  else?  Ah!  no,  my  dear  brethren,  we 
are  not  so  permitted  to  attempt  to  read  the  future.  Suffice  it  for 
us  to  glean  from  this  beautiful  story  its  many  lessons;  suffice  it 
for  us  to  apply  them,  to  study  them  as  far  as  in  us  lies ;  and, 
bearing  in  mind  the  frailty  of  our  nature,  to  avoid  being  widows ; 
to  shun  the  name  of  "Hubbard ;  "  to  have  more  than  one  cup- 
board in  the  house ;   and  to  keep  stores  in  them  all. 

And,  O  dear  friends !  keeping  in  recollection  what  we  havre 
learned  this  day,  let  us  avoid  keeping  dogs  that  are  fond  of  bones. 
But,  brethren,  if  we  do,  if  Fate  has  ordained  that  we  should  do 
any  of  these  things,  let  us  then  go,  as  Mother  Hubbard  did, 
straight,  without  curveting  or  prancing,  to  our  cupboard,  empty 
though  it  be — let  us,  like  her,  accept  the  inevitable  with  calm 
steadfastness,  so  that  future  chroniclers  may  be  able  to  write  also 
of  us  in  the  beautiful  words  of  our  text — 

"And  so  the  poor  dog  had  none." 

[Song  sung  by  invisible  singer  or  chorus.'] 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  48 


in 


ONLY  A  MAN. 


[Music  is  played  as  background  during  reciting  of  entire  poem.] 


He  comes  along  the  road  of  life,     With     careless     smile     and    a 
Andantino.  __^_ 


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mer  -  ry    song,     And  plucks  a  rose  that  grows  by  the  way,     Loves 


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it  a-while — perhaps    for    a     day.  He    soon  for  -  gets  that  beau- 


a  tempo 


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172  WERNER'S  READINGS 

ti  -  ful  rose  And  goes    in     search    of  an  -  oth  -  er,         On- 


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ly  to  cast  it  aside  and  forget,     With  never  a  thought  or  sigh  of  regret. 

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[Repeat    above    music   as   background    for    following   stanza.] 


He  comes  along  the  road  of  life 
Till  at  last  he  comes  to  the  dreary  way, 
And  there  he  finds  that  no  roses  bloom — 
Misses  their  sweetness — craves  their  perfume; 
But  summer  has  fled,  the  roses  are  dead, 
And  only  memory  lingers, 
One  tiny  petal  is  all  that  remains, 
But  that  tiny  petal,  how  it  well  explains. 
Only  a  man — just  a  man — that's  all,  And  the  rose   is   a   woman's 


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heart; 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.  48  173 

What    does    he    care    Tor   the    sweet  -  ness    wast  -  ed; 


77         T^=^  ja  tempo     .*.  it   ff^fl|    $£ 

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His    thoughts  were  all  for  the    sweet  -  ness    un    -    tast  -  ed;        Her 

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ev  -  ery    thought  was  a  thought  of  him;     His  love  was  on  -  ly     a 


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boy  -  ish  whim.      The    rose    droops    and    dies,    But  he  hears  not  her 


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174 


sighs, 


WERNER'S  READINGS 

For  he's      on  -  ly      a     man—      that's  all. 


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WOOING  OF  HYSTERIA. 


SAY,  Cherry !  dere's  er  peach  show  over  ter  de  t'eater  dis 
week — de  gang  wot's  bin  over  sez  it's  got  'em  all  skinned 
ter  death  !  Will  yer  go  wid  me  termorrer  night  ?  Oh,  it'll  make 
yer  blubber  all  right.  'N  say !  dere's  er  race  in  it  'tween  er  choo- 
choo  'n  er  chug-chug  dat  Skinny  Morgan  tol'  me  made  'is  'art 
soak  'is  ribs  so  hard  dat  Dippy,  what  wuz  sittin'  nex'  to  'im,  ast' 
'im  if  'e  swally'd  er  drum !  Gee,  kid !  come  on  'n  go  over,  will 
yer?  I'll  blow  ter  de  seats  in  de  mornin',  'n  we'll  do  it  all  right — 
will  yer?" 

"Well,"  replied  Cherry,  reflectively,  as  she  shifted  her  wad  of 
gum,  "I  dunno — I  kinder  promist  Jake  I'd  go  over  ter  de 
muzeeum  termorrer  night." 

"Aw,  cut  out  dat  cheap  guy,  kid — de  muzeeum  fer  dat  freak, 
anyway !  I'll  soak  'is  'ead  if  'e  comes  buttin'  inter  my  game ! 
You  fer  me,  Cherry !" 

"Say,  you!"  exclaimed  Cherry;  "wen  did  you  sign  me?" 

"Aw,  say  now — yer  knows  I'm  nuts  on  you,  Cherry !  W'y, 
yore  de  whole  cheese  wid  me !  Didn't  I  show  yer  de  time  of  yer 
life  at  de  Islan'  las'  summer,  'n  take  yer  in  de  soif  jist  like  er  real 
loidy  ?     W'y  dere  ain't  nuttin'  too  good  fer  you  wid  me,  kid !" 

"Aw,  well,"  sighed  Cherry,  "I  guess  I'll  let  Jakey  run  fer  de 
freaks !" 


AND   RECITATIONS   XO.   48 


175 


"Shure!  dat's  de  noise!  I'll  be  eroun'  oily  fer  yer; 
I'm  goner  ast  yer  somet'in  w'en  de  orkester  gits  one 
shiv'ry  spasms.     S'long,  kid !" 

Allegro. 


n  say, 
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In  the  peanut-gallery  the  following  evening  Larry  and  his 
lady  occupied  two  "reserved"  seats.  The  play  was  a  thriller,  and 
Cherry  was  "blubbering"  with  the  heroine,  for  the  villain  still 
pursued  her ! 

Then  the  hero  came  to  the  rescue,  and  cried  out  so  piteously 
that  even  the  music  began  to  quiver : 


"  I'm  poor,  but  I  love  you,  Alice!     Money  isn't  the  whole  thing. 
Moderate. 


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176  WERNER'S  READINGS 

It  can't  buy  love,   and  that's  all     I    have     to    of  -  fer    you 


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Take  it  and  give  me  your  love  in  return.   It  will  just  make  me  a  millionaire.' 

m 

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Amid  the  cheers  of  the  "gods,"  Larry  leaned  over  and  whis- 
pered earnestly  in  Cherry's  ear : 

"  Dat          goes           fer          me,  too,           kid;         O'ny         I 

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AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   48 


177 


heart's  jist  so  full  er  you  all  de  time  dat  vou  kin  have  my  little  ole 


— \-<      ,     t  -  *—       — i-  o  • 

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twelve  plunks  ev'ry  week,  if  you'll  on'y  say  the  woid. 


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178 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


Peel. 


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soit'ny       bin         good  ter 


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"Oh!  Larry! 

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[Play  allegro  music,  p.  175,  here  while  speaker  exits.] 


MORNING  SONG. 


ELSIE   M.  WILBOR. 


(Written  expressly  for  this  book.) 


[Reciter  impersonates  rooster,  or  chanticleer,  strutting  and  pruning  his  feathers. 
Lraring  reciting  of  last  two  lines  of  every  stanza,  reciter  stands  in  pompous  manner, 
stretches  his  wings,  clears  his  throat,  and,  stretching  and  curving  his  neck,  cries 
"'oock-a-doodle,"  etc.,  to  music  here  given.] 


ERE  the  morning  breaks  o'er  the  hills  and  lakes, 
Making  gems  of  the  drops  of  dew, 
While  the  watch -dogs  bark,  ere  the  soaring  lark 

Has  yet  tried  her  anthem  new, 
I  am  up  and  round,  and  the  echoes  sound 
With  my  cock-a-doodle-doo-doo-doo, 
With  my  cock-a-doodle-doo. 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   48  179 


While  the  household  sleeps  and  the  pale  moon  keeps 

Her  vigil  o'er  flock  and  farm, 
And  the  clock's  loud  tick  speeds  the  moments  quick, 

And  signals  to  night  alarm. 
I  stretch  out  a  wing,  clear  my  throat  to  sing 

My   glad   cock-a-doodle-doo-doo-doo, 
My  glad  cock-a-doodle-doo. 

Oh,  right  glad  am  I  that  the  sun's  bright  eye 

Finds  me  ready  with  my  song; 
And  bright  grow  his  rays,  as  he  hears  me  praise 

His  glory  in  notes  so  long 
That  echo  sends  back,  on  the  still  air's  track, 

The  refrain  of  my  cock-a-doodle-doo, 
In  a  faint,  sweet  "  doodle-doo." 

Not  a  day  goes  past  that  I  do  not  cast 

To  the  four  wide  winds  of  earth 
My  deeds  and  my  fame,  and  loudly  proclaim, 

That  none  may  forget  my  worth, 
"  I  am  chanticleer,  and  want  all  to  hear 

When  I  sing  my  cock-a-doodle-doo, 
My  cock-a-doodle-doo." 

Am  I  vain,  you  say,  my  virtues  to  lay 

Unblushing  before  you  all  ? 
Well,  perhaps  I  am;    but  then  I'm  a  man, 

Which  explains  what  you  may  call 
Undue  love  of  praise;    so  this  time  I'll  raise 

A  farewell  cock-a-doodle-doo, 
A   farewell  cock-adoo-o-o. 


180 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


OLD   SWEET   SONG. 


MARY   L.    GADDESS. 


I    CHANCED  upon  this  simple  song 
As  dreamily,  with  book  in  hand, 
I  sat  alone  at  eventide 

And  watched  the  light  die  on  the  land. 

The  distant  billows  sob  and  moan 
Beneath  the  last  warm  kiss  of  day, 

And  while  I  watch,  the  light  has  flown, 
And  dusky  shadows  fill  the  bay. 

A  boat  is  drifting  with  the  tide, 

And  happy  voices,  full  of  glee, 
Keep  measure  with  the  oars,  that  dip 

Into  the  tinted  summer  sea. 

[Sing  softly  behind  scenes.     Speaker  listens  a  moment  and  then 
continues  reciting.] 

THE  OLD   LOG  HUT. 

Moderately  fast. 


t=P=t 


#— \—±- — m—\ ^ — -— - 1 1- — I     | 1 h-'-,^-1 

^^^*1^*      !^^^»>^*       ^*1^*^^ 


I 


tafc 


m 


^?=g 


u-j  - 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.  48 


181 


r  L-U 


Down  by  the  river  our  log  hut  stands, 

Where  father  and  mother  dzvelt; 
And  the  old  door  latch  that  zvas  zvorn  by  our  hands, 

And  the  church  where  in  prayer  we  knelt. 

There  stands  the  tree  that  we  used  to  climb, 

And  the  mill  with  its  rolling  din; 
And  the  old  wharf  boat,  there  it  used  to  float 

Where  the  school-boys  went  to  sivim. 

Time,  in  his  rapid,  remorseless  flight, 

Has  furrow 'd  our  brows  with  care, 
And  has  mark'd  the  touch  of  his  withered  hand 

By  our  silvery  locks  of  hair. 

Ah,  happy  singers,  sailing  on 

A  pathway  like  some  golden  stream, 

You  seem  to  echo  back  my  song — ■ 
And  think  the  future  but  a  dream. 

Ah,  could  these  hours  so  sweet  and  still 
Last  longer,  time  but  wait  awhile, 

So  we  might  drink  a  little  more 

Of  Lethe's  stream,  and  cares  beguile ! 

A  dream!     Ah,  no,  life's  not  a  dream, 
Though  as  a  vision  bright  hopes  die, 

And  voyagers  upon  its  sea 

Must  breast  the  tempests  by  and  by. 


182  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  The  future  but  a  dream,"  I  think  ; 

Sometimes  we'd  gladly  say  'tis  true! 
Like  children  watch  our  little  boats 

Sink  in  the  waves,  and  make  us  new. 

But,  weary-hearted,  we  at  last 

No  longer  smile  as  children  may, 
But  sadly  weep  o'er  shattered  hopes, 

As  one  by  one  they  fade  away. 

Sweet  summer  night,  so  calm  and  still, 
Sweet  dreams,  that  fled  alas !  too  soon, 

For  busy  life  came  with  the  morn, 
And  weariness  before  the  noon. 

And  yet,  in  fancy  I  can  hear 

The  measured  oars,  and  then,  between, 

The  music  of  the  voices  rang: 

"  You  know  the  future's  but  a  dream." 

[Voices  behind  scenes  sing  louder,  then  cease:    Reader  pauses, 
then  continues  dreamily.] 

Still  floating  on  life's  ocean  wide, 

Tossed  by  its  billows,  I  would  see 
Beyond  the  dream  that  we  call  life, 

Heaven's  beautiful  reality. 


FOREIGN  MUSIC. 


Country  Uncle  (at  Metropolitan  concert).  What's  that  tune 
the  fiddlers  is  playin'  ? 

City  Niece.  It's  a  symphony,  written  by  Beethoven,  the  Ger- 
man composer. 

Country  Uncle.  No  wonder  I  don't  understand  it.  Con- 
siderin'  the  high  price  of  tickets,  they  might  play  it  in  English. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.  48 
OLD    PLAYED-OUT    SONG. 


183 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 


[Before  reciter  begins  selection,  singing  of  "Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home?"  is 
heard  in  distance,  off  stage.  Reciter  stands  a  moment  listening,  then  begins  (singing 
having  stopped),  and  continues  until  end  of  third  stanza.  Song  is  sung  again,  reciter 
standing  listening;  singing  stops,  and  reciter  recites  fourth  stanza.  Very  low  and 
soft  singing  during  reciting  of  fifth  stanza.  No  music  in  sixth  stanza,  until  reciter 
asks,   "Do  they  miss  me  at  home?"   when  song  is  again  repeated.] 


Ttndcrly. 


DO  THEY  MISS  ME  AT  HOME? 

-fit 


_fi — -    ,j  m— >,    s,    s-__fr_^J==zsr=vt_£ — s=Jj_J— _Mq=q— qs^rgj: 
u     n — s  — i — A — A — -r-3— -N — Ps*^  — '-^ — i — l-^-v-i51^ — *^     *  m — h^-: — J  "  J — r 


1.  Do  they  miss  me  at  home?  do  they  miss  me?'Twouldbe  an  as  -  sur-ance  most     dear       To 

2.  When     twilight  approach  -  es,  the    sea  -  son  That    ev  -  er    is      sa  -  cred  to       song,       Does 

3.  Do  they  set  me    a   chair  near  the    ta  -  ble,  When  evening's  home  pleasures  are  nigh  ?  When  the 

4.  Do  they  miss  me  at  home  ?  do  they  miss   me,  At      morn-ing,  at  noon,  or    at      night?      And 


=3?g^F*±*=* 


know  at     this  mo-mentsome     loved   one     Were      say  ing"I    wish   he   were    here;"     To 

someone     re  -  peat  my  name      o    -   ver,     And       sigh  that    I    "tar-  ry      so     long?       And 

can  -  dies  are     lit      in     the       par  -    lor,     And  the  stars  in    the  calm    a  -  zure     sky?       And 

lin  -  gers  one  gloomy  shade  round  them,     That         on  ly    my   pres-ence  can   light?       Are 

N     N     N    N     S    f ts  J-jV-T-g-  -g-  ,-T- :£- 


feel  that  the  group  at  the  fire-side  Were  thinking  of  me  as  I  roam,  Oh,  yes, 'twould  be  joy  beyond 
is  there  a  chord  in  the  music  That's  missed  when  my  voice  is  away,  And  a  chord  in  each  heart  that  a- 
when  the  "good  nights"  are  repeated,  And  all  lay  them  down  to  their  sleep,  Do  they  think  of  the  absent,  and 
joys    less  in  -  vit  -  ing  -  ly  welcome,  And  pleasures  less  hale  than  before,  Be  -  cause  one  is  missed  from  the 


come,  And  pleasures  less  hale  thar 


S^^e 


meas-ure  To  know  that  they  miss'd  me  at     home,    To  know  that  they  miss'd  me     at       home, 

wak-eth  Regret    at     my    wea  -  ri  -  some     stay,    Re-gret    at      my   wea  -  ri  •  some       stay? 

waft  me  A  whisper'd  "good  night"  while  they  weep?  A  whisper'd  "good  night"  while  they  weep? 

cir     cle,  Be-cause   I     am   with  them  no     more?    Be-cause    I      am   with  them   no      more? 

!■>   h    h    h       2 


184  WERNER'S  READINGS 

[Speaker  begins:] 

IT'S  the  curiousest  thing  in  creation, 
Whenever  I  hear  that  old  song 
"Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home?'/  I'm  so  bothered, 

My  life  seems  as  short  as  it's  long! — 
Fer  ev'rything  'pears  like  adzackly 

It  'peared  in  the  years  past  and  gone, — 
When  I  started  out  sparkin',  at  twenty, 
And  had  my  first  neckercher  on ! 

Though  I'm  wrinkelder,  older  and  grayer 

Right  now  than  my  parents  was  then, 
You  strike  up  that  song  "Do  They  Miss  Me?" 

And  I'm  jest  a  youngster  again! — 
I'm  a-standin'  back  thare  in  the  furries 

A-wishin'  fer  evening  to  come, 
And  a-whisperin'  over  and  over 

Them  words,  "Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home?" 

You  see,  Marthy  Ellen  she  sung  it 

The  first  time  I  heerd  it;    and  so, 
As  she  was  my  very  first  sweetheart, 

It  reminds  me  of  her,  don't  you  know ; — 
How  her  face  ust  to  look,  in  the  twilight, 

As  I  tuck  her  to  Spellin' ;  and  she 
Kep'  a-hummin'  that  song  tel  I  ast  her 

Pint-blank,  ef  she  ever  missed  me ! 

I  can  shet  my  eyes  now,  as  you  sing  it, 

And  hear  her  low  answerin'  words ; 
And  then  the  glad  chirp  of  the  crickets, 

As  clear  as  the  twitter  of  birds ; 
And  the  dust  in  the  road  is  like  velvet, 

And  the  ragweed  and  fennel  and  grass 
Is  as  sweet  as  the  scent  of  the  lilies 

Of  Eden  of  old,  as  we  pass. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.  48  185 

"Do  they  miss  me  at  home  ?"     Sing  it  lower — 
And  softer — and  sweet  as  the  breeze 

That  powdered  our  path  with  the  snowy- 
White  bloom  of  the  old  locus'  trees ! 

Let  the  whipperwills  he'p  you  to  sing  it, 
And  the  echoes  'way  over  the  hill, 

Tel  the  moon  boolges  out,  in  a  chorus 
.Of  stars,  and  our  voices  is  still. 

But,  oh !    "They's  a  chord  in  the  music 

That's  missed  when  her  voice  is  away !" 
Though  I  listen  from  midnight  tel  morning, 

And  dawn  tel  the  dusk  of  the  day ! 
And  I  grope  through  the  dark,  lookin'  up'ards 

And  on  through  the  heavenly  dome. 
With  my  longin'  soul  singin'  and  sobbin' 

The  words,  "Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home?" 


AT  DE  CAKE-WALK. 


MARTHA  YOUNG. 


[Suitable   music  may  be   selected   from   music   to    "Black  Ankle   Break-down, 

page  26.] 


MISS  KATY  at  de  cake-walk- 
Move  des  so! 
Corn-tossle  on  de  stalk 

Swing  des  so ! 

0  make  a  pretty  motion, — tu-re-lu-re  ! 

1  got  a  mighty  notion, — tu-re-lu-re! 

Who  gwine  take 

De  cake ! 

Mosquito  say  de  Katy-did  ma'y'd  her  cousin, 
Cousin,  oh ! 


186  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Mosquito  keep  up  sech  a  mighty  buzzin', 

Cousin,  oh ! 
Katy-did  say :    Katy  did  !    Katy  didn't !    Dee  !   dee ! 
Locust  holler  :     Come  see  !     Come  see !     See 

Who  gwine  take 

De  cake ! 

Oh,  Miss  Jincy,  pigeon-toe, 

Move  des  so! 
Backin'  same  as  de  crawfish  go, 

Creep  des  so ! 
Dem  whar  gits  hit  gits  dere  potion, — tu-re-lu-re ! 
Dem  whar  gits  hit :   Land  er  Goshen  ! — tu-re-lu-re ! 

Who  gwine  take 

De  cake! 


WILLOUGHBY  OF  '63. 

("Billings  of  '49.") 


EDWIN  BALMER. 


[Copyright,   1906,   by   The  American  Magazine.] 


"T^WAS   commencement  at   Harvard.     In   a  building  over- 

X  looking  the  campus,  where  many  graduates  had  as- 
sembled, among  their  fellow  juniors,  sat  Stafford  and  Burton 
close  to  an  old  graduate.     Suddenly  Burton  addressed  him, — 

"You — you  didn't  find  the  name  you  were  looking  for  this 
afternoon  ?" 

"No — no,  I  didn't.  How  did  you  know  I  was  thinking  about 
that?    Do  they  teach  you " 

"Mind  reading?  No;  not  yet.  We  don't  need  that,  you  see, 
to  be  able  to  make  out  a  vet — a  Confederate  veteran ;  but  I  was 
watching  you  go  over  those  names,  and  you  didn't  seem  to  find 
the  one  you  were  looking  for." 

The  old  man  sat  smiling.     "All  right.     I  was  thinking  about 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.  48  187 

that  just  then.  I'm  old,  you  see,  and  always  thinking  about  that 
sort  of  thing  when  I  shouldn't." 

"Why  shouldn't  you  think  about  it — here  with  us  ?  Was  he 
your  classmate? — the  one  you  were  looking  for?" 

"No." 

"Oh!    But  you  knew  him  here?" 

"No.     I  didn't  know  him  here.     I  only — I  only — I  shot  him." 

"Oh!     In  battle." 

"No,  not  in  battle"  (slowly  at  first)  ;  "young  man,  you— you 
reckoned  rightly  a  moment  ago,  that  I  was  a  Confederate.  I'm 
from  Baton  Rouge.  There  were  mighty  few  from  thereabouts 
in  Harvard  when  I  came  in  '45,  and,  of  course,  when  I  went  back 
in  '49,  Harvard  men  were  scarce  down  there.  It  was  twelve 
years  before — before  they  came.  They  marched  out,  you  remem- 
ber, when  Lincoln  first  called  for  volunteers — graduates,  seniors, 
juniors,  sophomores,  even  freshmen  came.  And  we  from  the 
South  marched  up  to  meet  them.  , 

"It  was  April,  '62 ;  I  had  a  company  at  Pittsburg  Landing — 
Shilorf  you  call  it,  I  believe.  The  first  day,  April  6th,  was  ours. 
It  was  a  surprise.  We  went  at  them  at  sun-up  and  struck  them 
in  their  camp.  Where  I  was  stationed,  it  was  company  to  com- 
pany. I  had  sixty ;  and,  though  the  company  opposite  didn't 
have  more  than  forty  left,  they  squatted  right  where  they  were 
in  the  grass  and  held  us  back.  Then  another  Louisiana  company 
came  up ;  the  Yankees  broke,  and  we  moved  away  to  support  our 
center.  I  mean  my  men  did.  I  had  a  minie-ball  in  my  hip  and  a 
little  piece  of  shell  had  taken  part  of  the  calf  of  my  other  leg; 
but  as  it  was  night  I  knew  they'd  be  out  searching  for  us  before 
long. 

"It  must  have  been  midnight  when  I  heard  a  movement  in 
front  of  me.  It  was  quiet;  so,  though  the  voice  was  weak,  it  was 
distinct. 

"  'Hello !  If  you're  alive  and  care  to  spare  something  to  drink, 
throw  your  can  this  way,  will  you?  I've  got  about  as  far  as  I 
can.' 


188  WERNER'S   READINGS 

"Now  at  night,  when  the  wounded  are  on  the  field,  it  matters 
about  as  much  which  side  you're  on,  as  whether  you're  Presby- 
terian or  Baptist ;  so,  without  asking,  I  called  back,  'Catch,'  and 
heard  the  other  fellow  scramble  after  my  canteen. 

"  'Say,'  he  wound  up  his  thanks,  'whoever  you  are,  you're  all 
right.     Reb  or  Union?' 

"  'Confederate.' 

"  'Call  it  your  own  way.  I'm  Union.  I'll  see  if  I  can  come  a 
little  closer  if  you  won't  talk  politics.  It's  mainly  one  arm  and 
one  leg  out  of  commission  for  me;  but,  fortunately,  as  they're 
both  on  the  same  side,  maybe  I  can  make  it  by  sticking  to  the 
good  half.' 

"He  managed  to  crawl  on  his  good  side  till  he  got  about  twenty 
feet  away,  and  then  he  had  to  give  it  up.  We  could  talk  pretty 
comfortably  at  that  distance,  however. 

"  'Confed,  every  now  and  then  there's  a  familiar  sort  of 
adulteration  in  that  Southern  tone  of  yours.  Most  of  the  time 
you  "reckon,"  but  you've  "guessed"  at  least  twice  in  the  hour.  So 
I  guessed  that  you've  been  north  of  Louisiana  more  than  once.' 

"  'Guessed  or  reckoned  right.     I  went  to  college  North.' 

"'Where?' 

"  'Harvard,'  I  told  him,  and  could  see  him  making  some  sort 
of  an  effort  with  his  body ;  but  it  was  no  use. 

"  'Shake, — that  is,  just  imagine  you're  shaking  hands  with  me. 
I  can't  get  any  nearer ;  but  I'm  from  Harvard,  too.  Willoughby's 
my  name.    Would  be  through  next  year.     '63  was  my  class.' 

"I  remember  I  moved  my  hand  toward  him  the  way  he  was 
doing  to  me.  It  seems  funny  now,  but  it  was  serious  enough,  and 
somehow  helped  a  lot  just  then. 

"  'I'm  Billings  of  '49.' 

"We  talked  as  we  lay  there,  in  spite  of  our  wounds.  About 
three  o'clock  I  heard  a  man  walking.  Hoping  it  might  be  a  hos- 
pital patrol  I  called,  and  in  a  moment  the  fellow,  dressed  in  blue, 
bent  over  me. 

"  'Shut  up,'  he  said,  sort  of  half  frightened,     'Who  are  you?' 


AND   RECITATIONS   XO.  48  189 

"A  little  more  light  came  from  between  the  clouds  then,  and 
before  I  could  answer  he  went  on :  'Oh,  it's  you,  Billings.  Keep 
quiet !  Beauregard  has  sent  me  to  find  out  just  what  is  left  of  the 
Yanks  and  what  they're  going  to  do.  Sorry  I  can't  send  you  in ; 
but  you'll  appreciate  my  position.  But  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for 
you  in  an  hour  if  they  don't  catch  and  hang  me  meanwhile.'  He 
moved  quickly  away.  He  seemed  not  to  have  noticed  the  Union 
officer,  Willoughby,  who  hadn't  said  anything. 

'  'Billings,'  Willoughby  said  to  me  after  a  moment.  'I  think  I 
ought  to  tell  you  something.  Just  now  you  and  I  were  just  two 
Harvard  men  together;  and,  if  we  weren't,  anyway  there'd  be  no 
call  for  just  you  and  me  to  fight  this  war  between  us  here  in  the 
dark.  But — but — I'm  sorry,  Billings ;  but  when  that  spy  of  yours 
comes  back,  I'm  a  Unionist  and  you're  a  Confederate  and  he's  a 
Confederate  spy.     Do  you  understand?' 

"  'Understand  what  ?' 

'  'Why,  I  mean  I  can't  let  that  spy  of  yours  get  back  to  your 
lines — if  I  can  help  it.  He  might  find  out  something  by  which 
our  army  could  be  wiped  out.  I've  one  good  hand  yet.  and  my 
revolver.  So  when  he  comes  back.  I'm  going  to  warn  him  and 
you — I  can't  murder  even  a  spy — and  then  I'm  going  to  shoot. 
Do  you  understand,  Billings?' 

"I  don't  remember  what  I  said  at  first,  but  I  remember  that  I 
made  it  clear  that,  even  if  our  man  was  a  spy,  I  couldn't  see  him 
shot,  and  that  if  he  was  going  to  be  so  particular  about  his  duty, 
I  should  have  to  be,  too.  But  he  said  that  he  would  keep  that 
spy  from  getting  back  to  Beauregard.  I  couldn't  help  but  admire 
the  nerve  of  the  man  with  only  one  good  hand  and  wounded  in 
other  places  so  he  couldn't  move,  yet  warning  me  he  was  going 
to  fight  us  both  if  he  had  to. 

"We  waited  about  ten  minutes  more  in  awful  silence,  when 
Willoughby  seemed  to  make  out  our  man  coming  from  the 
Union  lines. 

"  'Billings,  and  you  spy  there,  I  give  your  fair  warning !  I'm 
going  to  shoot!' 


190 


WERNER'S   READINGS 


"I  waited  a  minute.  I  thought  he  wasn't  going  to  do  it,  when 
his  revolver  rang  out.  The  bullet  was  so  close  that  at  first  I 
forgot  that  he  wasn't  shooting  at  me,  but  over  my  head  at  the 
other  man.  He  ignored  me  entirely,  even  when  I  covered  him 
with  my  gun  and  told  him  to  throw  down  his  pistol.  He  .must 
have  known  from  the  way  I  spoke  and  from  what  had  been  said 
before  that  I  meant  to  back  that,  too,  but  he  only  laughed  and 
prepared  to  shoot  again.  I  couldn't — I  couldn't  let  him  do  it. 
He  was  so  near  that  it  would  have  been  murder  if  I  had  let  Wil- 
loughby  fire  again.  But,  boys,  I  reckon — I  reckon  it  was  mur- 
der, anyhow,  but  I  know— I  have  tried  to  be  sure  that  I  only 
shot  to  knock  the  gun  from  his  hand." 

He  paused  and  sank  back  in  the  deep  cushions.  The  boys 
eagerly  inquired : 

"And— and  is  that  all?" 

"Yes — all,  except  that  the  third  man  was  not  the  spy.  He  was 
a  Union  ambulance  doctor,  and  went  to  Willoughby  first.  But 
Willoughby  made  him  come  to  me.  He  said  he  was  done  for 
and  that  I — they  carried  me  away.  I  never  saw  him  again  or 
even  knew  where  he  was  buried." 

Just  then  the  band  started  the  firm  notes  of  "Fair  Harvard." 
From  the  oldest  white-haired  grandfather  to  the  youngest  little 
brother  in  the  great  quadrangle,  they  rose  to  their  feet,  removed 
their  hats,  and  sang. 

FAIR   HARVARD. 


Andante,  mf 


^EE^^r^^m 


1.    Fair       Har-vard !  thy  song    to    thy        ju  -  bi -  lee  throng,  And  with    bless  -  ings  sur-  ren- 
S.    To  thy  bowers  we  were  led    in    the'     bloom  of    our  youth,  From  the    home    of    our     in  • 


der  thee 
fan  •  tile 


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AXD    RECITATIONS   XO.  48 


191 


o'er,  By  these  fes  -  ti  -  val  rites,  from  the     age  that    is    past,    To  the   age  that  is    wait  -  ing  be  - 

years,      When  our  fa-thers  had  warned.and  our  moth-ers  had  prayed,And  our  sis-  ters  had  blest.thro'  their 


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35 

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-*-i # H — 1    '  •    ' — m • # 1 1 1— +- 


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BE 


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fore.  O       rel  -  ie   and   type      of  our     an  -  ces-tor's  worth, That  has  long  kept  their  mem-  o  -  ry 

tears;         Thou  then  wert  our  pa- rent,  the     nurse  of    our  souls, We  were  mould- ed   to  man- hood  by 


±=± 


5-*- 


IP 


warm,        First  flow'r  of  their  wil-  der-  ness!   star  of  their  night.Calm  rising  thro'  change  and  thro'  storm  I 
thee,     Till  freightedwith  treasure-tho'ts  friendships.and hopes.Thou  did'st  launch  us  onDes-ti  -  ny 's  sea. 


When,  as  pilgrims,  zee  come  to  revisit  thy  lialls, 

To  what  kindlings  the  season  gives  birth! 
Thy  shades  are  more  soothing,  tliy  sunlight  more  dear, 

Than  descend  on  less  privileged  earth; 
For  the  good  and  the  great,  in  their  beautiful  prime, 

Through  thy  precincts  hare  musingly  trod; 
As  they  girded  their  spirits  or  deepened  the  streams 

That  make  glad  the  fair  city  of  God. 


192  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Farewell!  be  thy  destinies  onward  and  bright! 

To  thy  children  the  lesson  still  give, 
With  freedom  to  think,  and  with  patience  to  bear,, 

And  for  right  ever  bravely  to  live. 
Let  not  moss-covered  error  moor  thee  at  its  side, 

As  the  world  on  truth's  current  glides  by;      v- 
Be  the  herald  of  light,  and  the  bearer  of  love 

Till  the  stock  of  the  Puritans  die. 

After  it  was  finished  somebody  suggested  another  last  chee 
for  the  oldest  class.  Over  on  Holworthy  hung  the  '51 ;  and  see- 
ing that  first,  the  crowd  cheered  it  again  and  again.  When  the 
song  had  begun  the  old  graduate  and  young  Stafford  had  joinec 
Burton  standing  at  the  window  of  Hollis,  but  Burton  suddenly 
left  them.  He  worked  at  his  desk  for  a  moment,  and  quickly 
returned  with  a  big  cardboard  with  black  numerals-  hastily  cut 
and  pasted  upon  it.    Opening  the  window,  he  waved  it  to  and  fro 

"Forty-nine !"  some  one  called.  "Look  at  Hollis,"  he  cried 
"Forty-nine,  by  George !  They  have  a  man  of  '  '49'  up  there !' 
And  the  great  crowd  took  up  the  cry: 

"Harvard!    Harvard!    Harvard!    Rah!    rah!    rah! 
Rah,    rah,    rah!      Rah,    rah,    rah! 
Forty-nine!      Fcrty-nine!      Forty-nine!" 

On  the  far  edge  of  the  crowd  was  a  commotion.  A  tall  man 
with  one  arm  was  pushing  forward.  "Hello!  Have  you  a  man 
of  the  class  of  '49  up  there  ?    Who  is  he  ?" 

Billings  leaned  far  out  the  window,  but  Burton  answered  for 
him.  "Yes,  we  have  a  man  of  '49  up  here.  It's  Billings — 
Billings  of  '49.    Are  you  of  his  class?" 

They  stared  down  at  the  man  in  the  yard,  but  he  seemed  par- 
alyzed. Finally  with  an  effort  he  raised  his  voice,  and  his  tone, 
hoarse  and  indistinct,  came  full  of  happiness  and  joy: 

"My  God !  Billings  ?  Billings,  you  say  ?  No,  no  !  I'm  not  of 
his  class.  I'm  not  '49.  But  tell  him  I'm  Willoughby,  I'm  Wil- 
loughby  of  '63 !" 


